


always be your boy

by saysthemagpie



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Niall, Sad Harry, Sad Niall, Vampire Niall, Vampires, but also sad filthy loving sex, except Niall is Harry's vampire boyfriend, pretty much everyone is very sad for 2/3rds of this, sappy sweet filthy loving sex, slight D/s, there's something for everyone really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-05-10 14:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 67,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5589133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In retrospect, becoming part of the world’s biggest boy band might not have been the smartest move for someone with Niall’s 'special condition,' what with the whole never-aging thing and the insatiable thirst for human blood.</i>
</p><p>Niall's a vampire. Harry's his human boyfriend. Harry thinks he should probably become a vampire, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a fluffy vampire Narry smut ficlet, inspired by the tags on [this post](http://valencing.tumblr.com/post/134303983612/chonceinalifetime). Then, because I am an ANGST MONSTER who can't get enough of Niall suffering, it turned into something much longer and quite a bit darker (though plenty of fluff + smut still, because Narry). Title is from the Mountain Goats' "Twin Human Highway Flares."
> 
> In this universe, vampires never age and have low-grade mind control powers (let's be real, there's gotta be some explanation for why nothing ever sticks to Niall). Please imagine that fic Niall looks something like he does [now](http://ticklefightharry.tumblr.com/post/136154684924/niamscozy-x-harrymynewborngiraffe-its-been), because being sixteen until the end of time is too cruel.

In retrospect, becoming part of the world’s biggest boy band might not have been the smartest move for someone with Niall’s _special condition_ \- what with the whole never-aging thing and the insatiable thirst for human blood.

It’s his mum’s fault, sort of. He’s been sleeping in her guest bedroom for – well, a while now, and she’s been getting a little edgy lately about his continued presence in her house. Niall keeps catching her having long phone conversations with his father about it when she thinks he’s not paying attention. 

“Of course it’s lovely to have him for a long visit,” he overhears her say one afternoon. “But it’s been years, Bobby, and he’s brought all his bags with him. I’m afraid he’s _moved back in_.”

“You know I can hear you, Ma,” Niall yells from the sofa, where he’s been watching reruns of _Friends_ all afternoon. “And I have not moved back in, I’m just taking a bit of a holiday.” 

“Quiet, you. I’m having a chat with your da,” she hollers back. 

She’s kind of right, as much as he hates to admit it. He’d come back home after his last somewhat casual girlfriend ended things, intending to stay just a week or two. A week had become a year, a year became five years, and now he’s officially been crashing at his mum’s since the mid-nineties, just sleeping in her guest bedroom all day and hanging around the few pubs that will serve him most nights. 

Immortality can be _boring_ , is the thing, and having to pack up your life and start all over again every few years gets old sometimes. Sometimes you just need to take a break and chill out for a while, get your head on straight before you go back to the business of living forever. That’s what he keeps telling his mum anyway, though she unfortunately doesn’t seem to agree. 

Things come to a head one afternoon a week before the auditions, when she marches into his bedroom and flings the curtains open wide. 

“Oi, what the hell’d you do that for!” Niall yelps, diving under the duvet. The sunlight won’t actually kill him, of course, but it does break him out in a nasty rash. 

“Watch your mouth, young man,” she says. “No foul language under my roof.” 

Niall groans from where he’s hiding under the blanket. “Ma, I’m almost two hundred years old, I’m not a child – ”

“Well, you’d never know it,” she says severely. “You’re a two-hundred-year-old layabout, that’s what you are. Now pick up those tea things and bring them into the kitchen so I can do the washing up.”

Niall grumbles but complies, gathering up the dishes he’s left on the nightstand and following her downstairs. 

“No career,” his mum says once they’re in the kitchen, snapping on her kitchen gloves and running the hot water. “No prospects. No ambition. What’ve you got to show for two centuries, that’s what I’d like to know.”

Niall’s done – well, not a lot of stuff, but he’s done some things. In the past century he's has a few jobs, traveled a bit. It’s not like she’s got room to talk, anyway – she’s been living on the same block, going to the same five o’clock mass and gossiping with a rotating circle of neighbors for the last century or so. He knows she’s just worried about him, but it still rankles a bit.

“I did teach myself to play the guitar,” he points out. 

“Here, make yourself useful,” she says, handing him the dishtowel so he can dry. “You know I heard that Jack Healy’s been doing well for himself down in London these days. Got himself a job at one of those big law firms and a boyfriend who works in the phlebotomy department at St. Andrew’s.”

Niall drops the plate she’s handed him into the drying rack harder than he should, scowling. “Fuck Jack Healy,” he says, with feeling.

“Language,” Maura says mildly. “And be careful with those dishes unless you want to buy me a new set. You know Rose at church asked me the other day how you were getting on and I was so embarrassed I had to lie. Couldn’t very well tell her my useless lump of a son was still living at home, could I? Drinking up my spare blood supply and half the Guinness in Ireland. I said you’d got a nasty bout of blood poisoning and were recuperating. She sounded awfully smug about it.”

“I did get blood poisoning! From that mail-order service a few years back, remember? I feel a bit dodgy now, actually.” 

“That’ll be the hangover,” his mum says, looking unsympathetic. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you coming in from the pub last night. Listen, dear, it’s been lovely having you home but I’ve had a little talk with your da and he agrees. You’ll find a job and start paying your share of the rent by the end of the month or you can find yourself another coffin to sleep in.”

“Nobody even sleeps in coffins anymore,” Niall grumbles. 

Still, a week later he’s stood in line with a thousand other X Factor hopefuls, his favorite snapback pulled down over his eyes to shield his face from the weak Irish sun. The rest – well, the rest just kind of happens.

*

At the bungalow after the X Factor ends, Liam makes them all sit in a circle and swear that they won't ever keep anything from each other as long as they're One Direction. “No secrets in the band,” he says, fixing them each with a meaningful stare in turn. “Okay, now we have to go around in a circle and if you have a secret you have to tell everyone what it is.”

Zayn and Louis both shrug. Liam confesses that he’s a virgin, to absolutely no one’s surprise. Harry, who’s snuggled up against Niall’s side, announces that he likes boys as well as girls.

“Me too, actually,” Niall says quickly. “Also, I’m a vampire.” 

Liam’s jaw drops. “You both like _blokes_?” 

Louis and Zayn elbow him at the same time, one on either side. Liam doubles over, gasping. 

“That’s great, Haz.” Louis raises an eyebrow at him. “So Neil, are we talking proper undead here? Fangs and all?” 

“Yeah,” Niall says. “But not all the time. Just when I need to feed.”

It feels a bit weird to just come out with it like this, but he figures he can always cut his losses and head back to Mullingar if it doesn’t go over well. None of them really seem like the type to try and stake anyone through the heart.

“Whoa,” Zayn says, looking impressed and maybe a little stoned. “Bro. That’s _sick_. Does that mean you’re like, immortal?”

“Something like that,” Niall says. He clears his throat and holds up his empty can. “That’s me, then. Anybody need another?”

*

Harry corners him in the little galley kitchen ten minutes later, crowding him in against the cabinets. Niall’s only known Harry two months, but he’s already learning that he has a rather elastic conception of personal space. 

“You’re hiding,” Harry says.

“Nah,” Niall replies. It’s only sort of a lie. “Just, um. Thought you all might want some time to process. Kind of a big thing to spring on you.” 

“Well, at first Liam was afraid you might eat us.” Harry nudges Niall’s shoe with his bare foot. “But then Louis told him off for being narrow-minded and he changed his mind. Zayn reckons it’s just like a dietary restriction. Like how he doesn’t eat pork.”

“I won’t eat you,” Niall promises. “I use the blood bank, mostly.” 

“ _I_ wasn’t scared,” Harry says, looking indignant. “’Course you wouldn’t eat us, we’re your mates. Anyway, I agree with Zayn. I think it’s sick that you’re a vampire.” 

Niall feels touched. “Thanks, Haz. I think it’s pretty cool that you’re bisexual.”

Harry acknowledges this with a nod, though he doesn’t seem inclined to let him leave the kitchen just yet. Instead he reaches out and traces the edge of Niall’s frayed bracelet with his fingertips. It’s the kind of half-conscious gesture he makes all the time, not just with Niall but with all the boys. He’s a very tactile person, Harry is. 

“S’probably not even a big deal to you,” Harry says, ducking his head. “If you’re a million years old you must've had sex with loads of people.”

“It is a big deal, Haz,” Niall insists. “And I don’t know about loads. Just like, the normal amount, but over more years.” 

“I’ve only had sex twice,” Harry says. “With girls. It was kind of rubbish.”

“Hmm,” Niall says, noncommittal, because he’s starting to get an inkling of where this conversation is heading. 

Harry’s looking at him hopefully, his eyes wide and green, his full, gorgeous mouth slightly parted. God, he smells nice tonight, clean and soapy and sort of boyish. If Niall concentrated hard enough he could probably scent his blood too – rich and sweet, no doubt, with tangy copper undertones. 

Not that he’s concentrating, of course. Generally he tries to avoid imagining what his friends would taste like. 

"I still liked it, though," Harry offers, sounding a little shy now. "I bet it'd feel good with - y'know. Someone who was really experienced."

He presses in closer, swaying slightly, and Niall brings a hand up to his waist to steady him. He can feel the warmth of Harry’s skin through the fabric of his t-shirt, burning almost hot to the touch.

For a moment he lets himself imagine it: what it’d be like to lay this pretty boy down on the bed and spread him open - slowly, relentlessly. He’d take his time with it; show him just how good it could feel. 

“Harry,” he says, his voice rough.

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “If you wanted,” he says quickly. “We could, like – ”

But Niall never gets to hear what they could do, because there’s a sudden clattering behind them. Liam’s standing in the doorway, an armful of empty beer cans now scattered at his feet. 

“Whoops!” he says, bending down to pick them up. “Just tidying up, lads, don’t mind me.”

“Liam,” Harry grits out, which is when Niall realizes that he’s still holding Harry by the waist. Liam’s noticed too, if the nervous bray of laughter he gives is any indication.

“Thought we’d lost you,” he says, his eyes darting between them. “How terrible would that be, right? Losing two members when we’ve only just become a band.”

It's not entirely clear whether he views the vampirism or the bisexuality as a greater threat. It's possible he's not sure himself.

“We’re fine,” Harry starts to say, but Niall cuts him off.

“No, you’re absolutely right, Liam,” he says, in what he hopes is the firm, even tone of someone who wasn’t about to pin Harry up against the cabinets and ravish him right there in the kitchen. “That would be really terrible. We were just heading back anyway. Here, Harry, take these.”

He grabs the cans he’s set on the counter and thrusts them into Harry’s arms, ignoring the flash of hurt confusion in his eyes. Then he flees for the second time that evening. 

It might not be his most dignified exit, but it’s effective. Harry must get the hint, because when he comes back from the kitchen he ignores Niall completely, just settles into Louis’s lap and loudly demands to be fed the rest of the pigs-in-blankets they’d made earlier. Liam doesn’t look too thrilled about this either, but he surrenders the plate. 

It’s fine. Niall doesn’t feel even a little bit weird about watching Harry giggle and bite at Louis’s fingers like he hadn’t just practically propositioned Niall in the kitchen a few minutes ago. Harry’s way too young for him, way too human, and besides, Niall’s probably the first boy he’s met who isn’t straight. He’s just – convenient, that’s all. 

Niall doesn’t want to screw up this band thing, not over a one-night stand and an awkward morning after. One Direction’s the most fun he’s had in ages, probably ever. He takes another sip of his beer, half-listening to Liam agonize over whether or not some girl on Twitter was hitting on him. He doesn’t think about Harry’s pink mouth at all. 

*

Being friends with Harry is more fun than a quick fuck would’ve been anyway, Niall thinks. They get along like a house on fire, and apart from that brief, charged moment in the bungalow, there’s hardly a single moment of tension between them - sexual or otherwise. They laugh and joke around all day at interviews, keeping up an easy, teasing banter, then they mess around on stage in front of screaming fans till late into the evening. At night when Harry’s homesick or overwhelmed he’ll show up at Niall’s hotel room or crawl into his bunk, making Niall cuddle him until he feels better. 

The other boys lose patience with Harry’s long, rambling stories sometimes, but Niall doesn’t mind. He’s got an eternity of time ahead of him, so spending an evening listening to Harry muse over cloud formations doesn’t really faze him. Harry’s got a odd, fascinating sort of mind – full of nooks and crannies where he tucks away little bits of knowledge only to bring them out again at the most unexpected moments, unwrapping them in conversation for Niall and displaying them like treasures. Harry’s an old soul, thoughtful and slow, but he has the gentleness of the very young, the sweet, trusting openness of someone the world has never wounded. 

And never will, if Niall has anything to say about it. He protects Harry as best he can, shields him from the mad intensity of their lives. He learns all the ways Harry likes be soothed, learns how to pet him and quiet him and make a safe warm place for him in his arms.

So when he sees Harry flirting with girls, or taking them back to his room after a night out, Niall’s not upset exactly, just worried that they won’t know how to take care of him properly. The physical part of their friendship is fine too, for the most part. If his body gets a little confused sometimes when he wakes up with an armful of sleepy beautiful boy, that’s normal. It’s just contact, just touch. Niall might be a vampire, but in that respect he’s still _human_.

*

Then Niall goes into bloodlust halfway through their first world tour, and everything changes.

It’s been so long since it happened to him last he almost doesn’t recognize the symptoms at first. He’s in the van with Harry, listening him relate a long-winded, probably misremembered joke one of stagehands told him backstage—something involving a duck and a bartender and a map of Idaho—when suddenly it occurs to him that he’s been staring unblinkingly at Harry’s throat for the past ten minutes.

Harry’s phone buzzes in his hand. “Oh,” he says, looking down at it. “Zayn says they’re stuck at the venue still. Something’s wrong with the other van.” 

That’s – bad. Paul usually carries snack-size pouches of blood for Niall in a little cooler in case of emergencies, but he’s stayed behind with the other boys this time. 

“Oh no,” Niall says faintly. He’s usually so careful about keeping to a regular feeding schedule, but sometimes – when they’re crossing multiple time zones, or staying up till all hours at shows and parties – he gets the timing a little off. 

He can handle this, though. Paul will be back soon, right? And maybe he’s left some blood in the mini-fridge back in his hotel room. 

“You look weird,” Harry says, peering at him. 

“Stomach,” Niall says, digging his nails into his thighs.

“We’re almost there,” Harry says. He pets Niall’s hair, which has the unfortunate side effect of bringing his wrist within biting distance of Niall’s mouth. Niall twists away violently, pressing his face against the window.

“Sorry,” he manages. Harry smells so good he feels like he’s going to go mad with it. “Don’t feel too great.” 

Harry goes quiet, but he doesn’t try to touch him again. 

When they get to the hotel Niall barely even looks at him, just mutters another apology and scrambles out of the car, making his way past the small crowd of fans already gathered there without stopping. He feels a little bad about it – he really does like talking to them, under normal circumstances – but his fangs are starting to show, and that's probably not good for the brand.

Back in his room he calls Paul again, but it goes straight to voicemail. He hangs up without leaving a message. Ten minutes later he’s pacing the room and shivering hard as the need gets steadily worse. It’s way too late to try and arrange something with the hotel staff – he’s too shaky to explain the situation, much less get someone to sign the necessary paperwork before he tackles them and attaches himself to their neck. 

The mini-fridge is empty. No backup supply. He collapses on the bed, dropping his head into his hands. He's trying to think about anything but blood—thick, hot blood, the dull iron tang of it filling his mouth—when there's a _click_ and the door from the hallway swings open.

It’s Harry, of course. 

“I brought you soup!” he says holding up two plastic bags. “I didn't know what kind you liked so I got one of everything.” He's changed into a thin white t-shirt and a pair of threadbare track shorts Niall recognizes vaguely as his own. As soon as he sees Niall his eyes go wide.

“Harry,” Niall croaks, getting to his feet. “You need to leave.”

His senses are so sharpened by thirst he can hear the slow, steady pulse beating in the hollow of Harry's throat from across the room.

“I knew it,” Harry says fiercely. “I knew it was like, a vampire thing.” He drops the bags on the counter and comes towards him. Niall backs away, putting the bed between them, although he’s not sure if it's going to do much good. “Let me help, Niall. Paul won't be back for ages. Lou just texted and said they had to send for another car.”

“Shit,” Niall says, sticking his fingers inside his mouth to check his fangs. They’re almost fully descended now. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“I can help,” Harry insists. “Do you need blood? You can have it. Whatever you need.”

Niall closes his eyes for a minute. God, this is such a terrible idea, especially with one of his bandmates. Especially with Harry. He doesn't like to feed on people he knows, much less people he’s spent a fair amount of time wanking over in the shower. Even if someone swears up and down it's not a big deal, he knows they can't help but look at him differently afterwards, because they’ve seen him literally _drink their blood_. It’s a tough thing for a friendship to survive. 

But if the alternative is waiting until he's too desperate to control himself, he could end up seriously hurting someone. 

“Okay,” he says abruptly. “Okay, if you're sure - “

“I'm sure,” Harry cuts him off. “Like, really sure. Should I come over to you or what?”

“It'd probably be easiest if you were lying down,” Niall says, a bit awkwardly. "To get the right angle, and – um. You might feel dizzy for a little while after."

“That’s okay,” Harry says. He sounds nervous but determined. “I should probably take my clothes off, right?”

“Um, if you want,” Niall says. It's probably not necessary – his mother didn’t raise him to be a messy eater – but it’d take more willpower than he has right now to say no to a mostly-naked Harry in his bed. Especially if this turns out to be the last time Harry wants to be anywhere near him. 

Harry strips down to his tiny black briefs, dropping his clothes in a heap on the floor. Then he scrambles into the middle of the bed. He wriggles his hips a little, getting comfortable, and looks at Niall expectantly.

“Ready,” he says.

Niall leaves his own clothes on, hoping it’ll keep his body from getting too confused about what’s happening. He gets onto the bed and crawls over to Harry, settling between his legs but not quite touching him yet. Harry’s smiling reassuringly up at him, looking sweet and so, so edible.

God, if he hadn't waited so long between feedings, he could’ve drunk from Harry's wrist, taken just enough to tide him over until Paul showed up. As it is, though, that's not going to cut it. 

He presses his thumb lightly over Harry’s jugular vein, feeling the pulse there speed up a little at the touch. 

“Might sting a little at first,” Niall tells him, his voice a little hoarse. “You can tell me if it's too much, okay?”

Harry nods. He tilts his chin up a bit, showing him the long pale line of his neck, and Niall bends down to feed. When his fangs puncture the skin, Harry hisses. 

Niall freezes, even though the scent of Harry's blood, right at the surface now, is so strong he feels almost drunk on it already.

“Hah-ee?” he asks, as best he can around the fangs. “Sthop?”

“No,” Harry says, his breath hitching. “S'okay, don't stop.” 

He brings his hand up to stroke Niall's hair, urging him on. Niall shifts forward to lap at the blood welling up around the bite and Harry’s thighs fall further apart, welcoming him in. When he latches onto his neck and begins to suck at the wound he’s made there, Harry’s back arches off the bed so dramatically Niall has to quickly pin him to the bed, pressing him into the mattress so his fangs won't accidentally tear open the exposed skin of Harry's throat.

"Thtay _thtill_ ," he says with difficulty. Harry whimpers. Niall really, really hopes he’s not about to start freaking out. He can stop feeding if he has to—and he will, obviously, if Harry needs him to—but he hasn’t done this in so long, not properly, not in a bed when he’s able to take his time or with a real life human underneath him. 

Harry’s saying something in his ear. “Oh my god,” he’s saying faintly. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

Niall shifts his weight, getting ready to roll off of Harry so he can start calming him down. And then – wow. That’s Harry’s dick, for sure, fattening up against Niall’s thigh.

It’s not like this has _never_ happened before. People tend to have weird involuntary reactions to feeding, and sometimes that includes getting turned on. Unfortunately, in Niall’s experience, those are the people who freak out the most when it’s over, because they’re embarrassed and confused about how their bodies responded. It’s why he tries to never feed from someone he’s sleeping with, because it’s too hard for them to keep the two separate. Once you’ve felt like prey, it’s hard to go back to feeling like someone’s lover. 

The important thing is to just not acknowledge that Harry’s turned on, in case it makes him feel ashamed. It gets a little easier when, after a minute or two, Niall doesn’t have to hold him down so firmly. The blood loss is making Harry relax further into the mattress with a sigh, going all soft and loose-limbed underneath him.

Or well, mostly soft. Harry’s erection is still trapped between their bodies, straining against the thin fabric of his briefs and rubbing against Niall's belly every time their bodies shift. 

It’s making Niall hard too, though he's trying his level best to ignore it. He’s always found feeding erotic; to him, it feels more intimate than sex sometimes. But he’s always, always tamped down that feeling, whether because it makes people uncomfortable or because he’s feeding from someone he doesn’t really crave intimacy with. 

Maybe it’s because, if Niall's honest with himself, he's been thinking about this—or trying not to think about it—for ages, ever since Harry touched his wrist back at the bungalow and said, _If you wanted_. Nothing he’s imagined comes close to the reality, though. He’s never fed from anyone so beautifully responsive before. Harry’s pressing his warm, naked, gorgeous body against him, his hips rolling mindlessly against Niall’s, and he’s making these soft little sounds that go straight to Niall's cock. 

And the taste of him, God. He tastes heady and sweet, infinitely richer than the little sachets Paul orders from the blood bank. Niall drinks and drinks, dazed with pleasure. The room is silent apart from Harry’s breathy gasps and the wet sound of him lapping and sucking at Harry’s throat.

“Niall,” Harry says, his hand tightening suddenly in Niall's hair. “Please, can I – ”

Niall doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t want it to end, if only because when it does he’s going to have to face Harry’s confusion and regret. It won’t happen again, he knows that. He’s lived it a dozen times before – the awkward apologies, the tears, the _I just didn’t know it would be like that_ s. 

“ _Niall_.” This time there’s a note of desperation in Harry’s voice that slices cleanly through the haze of pleasure. Niall’s ashamed by his own lack of control. The bloodlust itself has long since been sated, and the last thing he wants is to terrify Harry further. 

“Shh, you’re okay, love, it’s over,” he says soothingly, drawing back a little but laving over the bite at Harry’s throat with his tongue. He can feel Harry trembling under him, and Niall breathes him in one last time before pulling back.

Harry’s looking up at him, dazed, his pupils blown wide. 

“Niall,” he says again, like it’s the only word he remembers. He’s staring at Niall’s mouth, and it reminds Niall suddenly, viscerally, of the kitchen at the bungalow, the way Harry’s eyes had dropped to his lips. He flicks his tongue out, sweeping up the last little remnants of Harry’s blood. 

Then—because it might be his last chance, because he can’t help himself—he leans forward and kisses Harry lightly, letting him taste. 

“So good, Haz,” he says softly as they break apart. Even if this ends up wrecking their friendship, it’s like he’s physically incapable of not telling Harry how good he’s been for Niall, how good he always is. How perfect. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry breathes, and twitches hard beneath him.

There's a brief silence where Niall tries to process what’s happened. He’s so surprised he can’t help but ask, “Was that – Harry, did you just come?”

Harry's only response is to blink up at him and smile. He looks high as a kite, his pupils blown wide, flying on a potent cocktail of post-feed, post-orgasm endorphins. 

“I guess I like vampires too,” he says dreamily. His voice sounds low and syrupy, every word drawn out even longer than usual. “Girls and boys and vampires.”

Niall braces himself up on one arm, looking down at the wet patch that’s spreading across the front of Harry’s briefs. He feels a little lost. “You _liked_ that?”

Harry hums sleepily. “You’re a boy. And a vampire,” he says. He traces the line of Niall's cock through his jeans. “Also you’re Niall. I like you.”

“I like you too,” Niall replies automatically, because it’s true. 

“Hm,” Harry says, as if storing this information away for future reference. He undoes the top button of Niall’s jeans and slides the zipper down.

“Harry,” Niall says helplessly, watching him. 

“Shh,” Harry says, tugging at his jeans until he’s worked them down just far enough to free his leaking cock.

He jerks Niall off in quick, rough strokes, wrist working fast in the space between their bodies. The bite on his throat is turning a dark, angry red, livid against his pale skin. Niall feels a surge of bloodlust again when he looks at it, or maybe it’s just the ordinary kind of lust this time. All he knows is that he wants to bite Harry again, mark him all over. Claim him as _prey_ , as _lover_.

He’s close already, painfully so. 

“You should come on me,” Harry says, like he's been thinking about it.

“God,” Niall gasps, leaning into his shoulder.

“All over me,” Harry decides, thumbing over the sensitive head, and Niall groans and obeys, his cock twitching in Harry's fist, painting thick white stripes across Harry’s stomach and chest.

When he comes down from his orgasm, Harry's sliding his fingers through the mess on his belly, painting sticky designs on his skin. 

“Yuck,” he says happily, and it startles a laugh out of Niall, who sometimes forgets what it’s like to be a real, non-vampire teenage boy. He gets a flannel from the bathroom and cleans them both up, before curling up alongside Harry and kissing him again, properly this time, letting Harry lick into his mouth and suck gently on his tongue. 

Harry’s eyes are starting to close when they pull apart. Niall’s actually amazed he’s managed to keep awake this long after a feeding. 

“I think from now on,” Harry says, “you should only do that stuff with me.” 

“Which stuff, Haz?” Niall asks. Harry pats his cheek.

“The blood thing,” he says, closing his eyes. He’s slurring his words a bit, falling asleep. “Also the sex thing and the kissing, all of it with me. Nobody else. First thing we’re doing is naps.”

Niall’s trying to remember why this plan might actually not be a good idea, but he feels so happy and sated and fond right now he can’t quite summon up any of his carefully constructed reasons. Still, he can’t help but wonder if he should get up and go sleep on the bus, just to give them both some space in case Harry regrets this in the morning. He shifts a little, but Harry makes a sleepy noise of protest and tugs at his arm.

“Naps,” he says, more firmly this time, and Niall gives in, figuring they can talk it out in the morning.

He has to be big spoon, of course, but that’s secretly his favorite position to sleep in with Harry anyway. Harry runs too hot and he runs too cold, so they balance each other out well. And Niall likes that if he presses his face against Harry’s back, just between his shoulder blades, he can feel the gentle thump-thump of his heartbeat all through the night, warm and human and alive. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter-specific warnings: some descriptions of past violence + PTSD-esque symptoms.

They don’t end up talking it out in the morning, because Harry wakes Niall up a couple hours later with a sloppy but exceedingly enthusiastic blowjob. Afterwards Niall tugs him up by the hair (which Harry goes absolutely _wild_ for, moaning and rubbing his hard-on frantically against Niall’s thigh) and gets a hand on Harry for the first time, wanking him off and kissing him through it. 

By the time he’s wrestled Harry into the shower, toweled him off, tucked him into the spare bed, and responded to Paul’s _btw Niall r u good on blood?_ text, he’s so exhausted he winds up passing out next to Harry and sleeping right through their first two wakeup calls. 

It’s a mad rush to pack up their things and make it to the bus on time, and with the other boys and the crew hanging around he doesn’t get a chance to bring it up with Harry again. 

Harry’s clingy and sweet all day, snuggling into Niall’s side and blinking wide-eyed at anyone who tries to talk to him. Niall wonders if this is what coming down from the endorphin rush of a feeding looks like. He’s never stuck around long enough to find out before. 

“You and Harry, then?” Zayn asks once Harry’s fallen asleep on the sofa next to Niall. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. 

Niall pretends like he hasn’t heard him, which sends Zayn and Louis into a fit of silent giggles. 

“ _Neil and Hazza sitting in a tree, D-I-C-K-I-N-G_ ,” Louis sings under his breath, and then makes obnoxious kissy noises until Niall finally grabs the nearest water bottle and lobs it at his head. 

The next few days are a whirlwind of blowjobs in venue toilets and furtive handjobs in the bunks late at night, Niall covering Harry’s mouth with his hand to keep him from waking up the other boys. They fuck properly for the first time a few days later in the next hotel, Harry on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed. Halfway through, Harry lets Niall pull him up flush against his chest and feed from him again, tipping his head back onto his shoulder and making the most delicious helpless noises as Niall rocks into him from behind. 

It’s so good Niall whites out for a second when his orgasm hits him, his cock buried deep in Harry’s arse and his fangs embedded in his throat. It’s only when Harry starts to whimper, his dick bobbing hard and leaking against his stomach, that Niall comes back to himself.

“So beautiful,” he says, a note of apology in his voice as he wraps his hand around Harry’s cock, smearing precome over the head. “Gonna come for me, pet?” 

“Yes please,” Harry sobs. He thrusts into Niall’s fist, his rhythm frantic and uneven. Niall lets him, because he’s quickly learning that Harry likes to work for his orgasms. “Please, I want to, please.”

“You’re good, babe, you can come whenever you want,” he murmurs, licking over the wound he’s made. Harry’s whole body goes rigid against him for an instant, taut as a bowstring, and then he’s falling apart in Niall’s hands, sagging back into him as he comes.

*

It’s so good, is the thing. Not just the sex, though that’s obviously brilliant – getting to hold Harry for real now, getting to feel him squirm underneath him, up against him, needy and gorgeous and begging for Niall’s dick inside him. Niall’s pretty sure he could have been happy just cuddling Harry and listening to him talk for as long as Harry was willing to cuddle and talk to him. But this – getting to cuddle him, listen to him talk, fuck his brains out, _and_ drink his blood on a regular basis, is so much more than Niall ever hoped for that sometimes he feels like he’s floating through his own life. 

Niall’s always taken care to keep the vampire part of his life separate from the other parts. With the boys he’s been especially discreet to avoid weirding them out. He was always sneaking off to feed alone in his room, watching old episodes of _Seinfeld_ while he sucks up that week’s blood bank delivery through a straw. The few times he’s fed from a real live human being on tour, Paul has always quietly arranged it with the hotel concierge beforehand, delivering some well-compensated staff member to Niall’s room only after they’ve forfeited their phone and signed an ironclad nondisclosure agreement. 

It’s awkward and embarrassing and it always makes Niall feel a bit like a caged animal, or a dirty old perv who can only get it if he pays for it. 

With Harry it’s different. Harry doesn’t just tolerate _the blood thing_ , as he calls it. He seems to really, genuinely love it, so much so that just the sight of Niall running his tongue over his teeth is enough to get him half hard. 

(Louis, of course, thinks this is the best trick he’s ever seen, and tries to bribe Niall to do it in interviews.) 

It gets to the point where Harry’s asking for it so often that Niall’s personal trainer has to pull him aside and warn him that if he doesn’t watch his diet more closely, he’s going to get a bit of a belly. After that Niall implements a once-a-week-plus-special-occasions feeding rule. It’s almost better that way, honestly, since it means that Harry spends most of the week trying to convince him – in increasingly inventive ways – to bend the rules. 

“It’s Mexican Independence Day,” he whispers once when they’re in Niall’s bunk. He’s got one leg slung over Niall and he’s rolling the head of Niall’s cock gently between two fingers, looking hopeful. 

“Not a holiday we celebrate, Haz,” Niall responds, biting his lip. They’re trying to keep quiet, because the other boys are already asleep and he’s pretty sure that if Liam catches them with their dicks out one more time he’s going to just keel over in the aisle from the stress of it. Niall doesn’t particularly want that death on his conscience. 

“I researched it on the Internet,” Harry says urgently, sliding his hand down further to cup Niall’s balls. “It seems very complicated but I know a lot about it now. Just ask me.”

“Okay, Harry,” Niall says. “Tell me about Mexican Independence Day.” 

Harry presses his forehead to Niall’s shoulder and shudders a little. When he’s this worked up, it’s like _any_ command, no matter how mundane, turns him on. It’s kind of amazing.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless. “Yeah, it’s like – um, it’s not on Cinco de Mayo, obviously, it’s in September, and there was like, this priest named Hidalgo? And he wanted to fight the Spaniards?”

“Uh huh,” Niall says, spreading his thighs a little wider so Harry can keep touching him. 

“And they won some battles and then they lost some,” Harry says. He’s hard too – Niall can feel him pressing against his leg – and getting a little distracted with it. “Um. There were some people in a jail but I think they set them free.”

“Sounds like you don’t really know that much about it, Harry,” Niall murmurs, trying his best to sound disappointed. Harry whines, soft and desperate, like he can’t help it.

“No, I _do_ ,” he says, rubbing his big beautiful dick against the flesh of Niall’s inner thigh and panting a little. “I just can’t – remember right now, I just – _please_ , Ni, what if you bite me just a tiny bit?”

“Not till Saturday,” Niall says firmly.

At that, Harry breaks.

“I’ll be so good,” he begs. “I’ll be so so good, Niall, promise, I’ll taste so good for you –”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Louis groans loudly from the opposite bunk, startling them both. “Will you please put him out of his misery so the rest of us can get some fucking sleep?”

Somewhere below them, Liam lets out a slightly traumatized-sounding whimper. 

“Oops,” Niall whispers, but he ends up sucking on Harry’s neck (and later his cock, though _very_ quietly) anyway.

It’s Mexican Independence Day, after all. 

*

Niall tries to let Harry off the hook just once. They’ve been sleeping together for about six months – and as far as Niall knows, Harry hasn’t been with anyone else in ages. It’d be a bit difficult for him to hide it from Niall if he were, considering that they’ve been sleeping in the same bed five nights out of seven. 

Still, they haven’t really talked about it, not explicitly. Tonight Niall’s been listening to a pretty, curvy redhead with a nice smile chat Harry up for the better part of an hour, while he stands awkwardly in the vicinity sipping a pint and pretending to be engrossed in his phone. He probably looks like a complete twat, but so far he’s been unable to convince himself to just walk away and leave Harry to it. 

“It was very nice to meet you,” he overhears Harry say finally, and the girl shrugs and goes back to her friends.

“Whatcha doing?” Harry asks, resting his chin on Niall’s shoulder so he can look at his phone. 

Niall quickly closes out of the _#catsofinstagram_ tag and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Nothing much. Just hanging out.”

Harry nuzzles his face into Niall’s neck. “Missed you.” 

It’s the kind of thing Harry says all the time, the kind of thing Niall’s never quite sure how to respond to. 

“She seemed nice,” he says instead. He’s tipsy and feeling rather maudlin. They look good together, Harry and Nice Smile Girl. They’ll probably get married and make really adorable babies. And then they’ll raise them in a beautiful manor home by the sea, and Niall will be invited over for Christmases, and he’ll have to swallow down his jealousy and bring presents for everyone and go home all by himself.

Okay, maybe downing that third pint so quickly wasn’t the best idea. 

“Yeah, she was,” Harry says, sounding unconcerned. Niall feels like it’s a little inconsiderate of him, given that he’s about to leave Niall for domestic bliss with a pretty redhead. “Wanna do that weird mind control thing so we can make out on the dance floor?” 

(In a moment of honesty last week, Niall had revealed to Harry that vampires could subtly compel the perceptions of people around them - to calm an agitated victim, for instance, or to distract suspicious onlookers. He’d been a bit nervous about telling him, because he hadn’t wanted Harry to ever think Niall would do something like that to him without his consent. Harry had considered it for a moment, chewing on his lip. Then he’d asked, “So like, we could have sex _on stage_?”)

Niall isn’t quite ready to let Nice Smile Girl go, though, because apparently he’s got as much of a pain kink as Harry does. 

“You could’ve gone with her,” he says. It makes his throat tighten up just thinking about it. 

Harry stiffens against him, not in the good way. “Excuse me?” he says, pulling away so he’s facing Niall.

“Um,” Niall says. “I just mean – she seemed pretty into it.”

“Yeah, she did,” Harry says. “But I’m kind of out with my _boyfriend_ right now. My boyfriend who’s definitely not getting laid tonight if he keeps trying to pawn me off on strange women.”

“I wasn’t – ” Niall starts to say.

“Yes you were.” Harry looks properly annoyed. “And you can cut it out with the gloomy _I’m so ancient no one will ever love me_ face. If I wanted to be with someone else I would be, you tit. I’ve not been hypnotized by the powers of your vampire dick.”

“That’s not – ” 

“It’s a very nice dick, though,” Harry concedes, patting Niall’s cheek fondly. “Might let you hypnotize me with it later if you’re good. Now go get me one of those pink drinks with the strawberries in it, please.” 

Niall buys him a pink drink with strawberries in it. He buys pink drinks with strawberries in them for the whole bar, and he doesn’t stop grinning till he falls asleep later that night, a naked and spent Harry tucked under his arm, snoring softly in his ear. 

*

Harry springs it on him for the first time after they’ve been together _officially_ for just over a year and a half. It’s their last day off before the next tour starts, and they’ve just spent the afternoon making the most of Niall’s gigantic bed in London and Harry’s rather alarmingly diverse collection of glittery pink sex toys. Now they’re making out quietly, rolling around in the rumpled sheets and rubbing off lazily against each other. 

Harry starts kissing his way down Niall's body, wearing that look of tractor-beam focus he gets when he's about to do something mind-blowing to Niall's dick. He’s made it halfway there when he stops and pops right back up again, looking flushed and gorgeous. 

“Um, Haz,” Niall says helplessly, bucking his hips a little in case Harry needs help remembering where he was meant to be heading. Niall's not above drawing him a map, if that's what it takes.

“I had such a great idea just now,” Harry says brightly, in a tone that suggests he's been plotting this ambush for days, maybe longer. “What if instead of doing blowjobs, you drink all my blood so I can live eternally with you?”

It's kind of sweet. Like a marriage proposal, except - slightly less romantic. Still. 

“What the fuck, Harry, no,” Niall groans. “I am not going to turn you into a vampire.”

“Okay, but just think about it,” Harry continues, undeterred. “If I were undead too we could hang out like this literally _forever_. I mean, don’t you get bored all by yourself?” 

Niall does get bored, yeah, but that’s not a good enough reason to condemn someone to a cursed half-existence, suspended between life and death till the end of time. Or whatever. 

It’s clear that Harry isn’t going to just drop it, though, so Niall reluctantly sits up in bed, his cock tenting out the front of his trousers.

“I just don't know that you would really enjoy immortality, Harry,” he says. “You don't get to just quit if you get bored, you know? And you don't have the best track record with long-term commitment.” 

Harry looks indignant at this, so Niall clarifies quickly, “That’s not – I mean, this is great, Haz, we’re great. I just mean, like. You can't even remember to feed Liam's turtles when he’s out of town.”

“That was ages ago,” Harry protests. “Besides, David lived a good long life. The vet said he just caught some kind of weird reptile cold, remember?”

It was last summer, actually, and Niall’s pretty sure the vet was just cushioning the blow because she had _Harry Styles_ standing in her office, holding a dead turtle and looking mournful. But whatever helps Harry sleep at night. 

He should probably change the subject before Harry starts thinking too much about untimely pet deaths, though. He doesn’t really fancy spending the afternoon watching _Where the Red Fern Grows_ for the fifth time if there could be blowjobs happening instead. 

“Okay,” he says, switching tacks. “But you know if you became a vampire you couldn't live in L.A. anymore. Way too sunny. You’d break out like crazy, probably.”

The thought of having to choose between California and clear skin distracts Harry from the original question enough that Niall can lunge in for a kiss and a bit of a neck-nibble. After that it doesn't take too much maneuvering to get things moving in the right direction again. 

*

It comes up again a few weeks later, just when Niall’s nearly forgotten about it.

“Sunblock!” Harry exclaims, popping out from behind the door of Niall's dressing room and scaring the shit out of him. Niall actually clutches at his chest in shock, a weird reflex given that his heart hasn’t worked in two centuries. 

“What?” he gasps.

“That's how I could live in L.A.,” Harry says excitedly. “I was texting Nick about it and he told me they make this really high-grade sunblock for people who have, like, weird skin conditions and stuff. It would be so easy. Or I could just move back to London and live with you.”

“You do have a whole house of your own there, you know,” Niall says. Not that he wants Harry anywhere but in his bed, as often as possible. He eyes Harry's throat, wondering if they've got enough time for a quickie and maybe a quick snack too before the meet and greet. 

Harry seems to have had the same idea, because he’s steering Niall backwards towards the couch, pushing him down and straddling him. 

“I hate that house,” Harry complains. “It’s empty and boring. Nobody lives there but me.”

He settles down onto Niall’s lap and starts grinding down on his cock, making himself comfortable.

“Mm, that’s nice, babe,” Niall says, pushing his hips up to meet him and pulling him in for a wet, sloppy kiss. They rock against each other like that for a while, both of them getting slowly hard, until Harry starts making the little impatient whimpers that mean he wants a hand on his cock. 

And well, Niall's never denied Harry anything, apart from eternal life.

“What were we talking about?” Harry asks afterwards, a little dazed. 

Niall offers him his hand and Harry starts licking obediently at his fingers, pink tongue darting out to lap up the sticky mess they’ve made. It makes something stir deep in Niall’s gut, even though he’s literally just come. 

“Can't remember,” he says. 

*

Harry’s next strategy is to enlist the other boys. 

Liam caves first. He corners Niall on the bus, looking slightly hunted.

“Please turn Harry into a vampire so he’ll stop texting me about it,” he says. 

“No,” Niall says, not looking up from his phone. “Sorry, Liam.” 

Liam drops down into the seat next to him. “I mean, Harry’s got a fair point,” he says seriously. “We did all swear we’d be best friends forever.”

“Aww, Leeyum, do you want me to turn you into a vampire too?” Niall says, grinning at him. 

Liam gives him a panicky look. “I have a girlfriend, Niall,” he says. “Because I like _girls_. I’m very happy with my girlfriend, Sophia.”

Niall makes a mental note to tell Harry this story when they’re in bed together tonight. They’ve long suspected that Liam gets the words _vampire_ and _bisexual_ mixed up sometimes. 

Zayn and Louis hold out a couple weeks longer, until they’ve got Niall holed up with them in a hotel room one afternoon watching a footie game. It’s Harry’s day to babysit Lux, a responsibility he takes very seriously. Unfortunately that means Niall hasn’t gotten fed or laid in a while, having spent most of the previous night looking up age-appropriate arts and crafts projects for toddlers and getting shot down repeatedly by Harry (“I want her to learn something, Niall, not just paste pieces of paper together,” Harry kept saying earnestly). 

Niall’s a little tetchy as a result. 

“I reckon Harry can make his own decisions, mate,” Zayn says. “He's a grown-up. Kind of.” 

“I'm sorry, but are we talking about the same Harry Styles?” Niall asks incredulously, kicking his feet up on the ottoman. “Long hair, about yea tall, giant dick? Tends to wander off a lot and steal old men’s shoes? Believed Louis for _six months_ when he told him that some cultures think cars are sentient beings?”

“Ah yeah, forgot that, that was a good one,” Louis says reminiscently. “Remember how he used to put his head down on the seat and tell the bus all about his day?”

“The point,” Niall says, trying to keep them all on track, “is that Harry's not anywhere near old enough or mature enough to make this decision for himself.” 

“Well, how old were you?" Zayn asks casually, leaning over to pass the joint to Louis. “Couldn't have been much older than Haz is now, yeah?”

Niall can’t help it; he flinches. That’s not something he likes to think about very much, or ever, if he can help it. It’s not a happy memory.

He doesn’t recall exactly what it felt like to die anymore. Maybe he’d been unconscious already from the blood loss, or maybe he’s just blocked it out, the experience too traumatizing for his mind to hold onto for long. But he remembers the rest of it. The terror he’d felt, cornered like a trapped animal. The sound of his mother screaming and screaming, her voice coming to him from somewhere very far away. 

He’d fought so hard for his life. In the end it hadn’t made the slightest difference. 

"I was nineteen," he says. His hands are shaking slightly, so he sits on them. "But I didn't have a choice. And I won't – I'd never. If someone tried to hurt Harry like that I'd make them pay. I'd destroy everything they loved in front of them and then I'd kill them. Slowly.”

"Whoa, okay, mate," Zayn says, exchanging an alarmed look with Louis. "Sorry for bringing it up. But um, is it always like that? I mean, would it be different with someone you loved?”

“I don't know,” Niall says. “I've never turned anyone before.” He's never been in love before either, but he doesn’t say that part out loud.

For once, Zayn and Louis don’t tease him when he excuses himself to seek out Harry half an hour later. He finds him in Lou’s room down the hall, sitting on the floor with Lux. There are bits of colored paper and feathers and glue sticks strewn absolutely everywhere. Harry’s got glitter in his hair somehow, even though Niall’s almost positive they didn’t buy any. 

“Look, Luxie, you made a bird!” Harry’s saying, pointing at a misshapen, sparkly, feather-covered blob glued to a piece of blue paper. “What does the bird say?” 

“Mooooo!” Lux yells, crawling into Harry’s lap and grabbing a fistful of his curls. 

“Close enough, you smart girl,” Harry says, giving her a big smacking kiss on the forehead and making her giggle. He grins up at Niall. “Hey, it could be a parrot. You never know.”

“I love you,” Niall blurts out. 

Harry’s expression softens. “Love you too, babe. C’mere and help us glue these sticks on to make the nest.” He rescues a twig from Lux’s mouth, frowning. “Yuck! Not for eating, sweetie.”

 _I could keep him_ , Niall thinks suddenly, watching him.

He’s never allowed himself to articulate the thought before – maybe because he’s afraid, deep down, that if he lets the idea get its hooks into his mind he won’t be strong enough to resist it. 

He knows Harry doesn’t fully understand what he’s asking for, no matter how insistent he is. At twenty, there’s no way he could possibly comprehend what it means to never die. Most days Niall doesn’t think he comprehends it himself, and he’s had a lot more time to adjust to the idea. It shifts something inside you, changes you in ways you’d never anticipated. Makes each and every decision matter so much less and yet also, somehow, so much more – because if you make the wrong choice, you have to live with the consequences forever. 

Harry might despise it, once the novelty’s worn off and he’s realized what Niall’s done to him. But there’s also the possibility, however slight, that he wouldn’t. That he’d be able to find joy in it - getting to live so many lives, to see so much – the way Harry finds joy in nearly everything he does. And he wouldn’t have to be alone. He wouldn’t have to be afraid.

Harry might come to hate Niall for it, eventually.

Or – and Niall can’t stop himself from thinking it, hope expanding in his chest like a sudden burst of light – he might not. 

He might keep loving him anyway.

*

He brings Harry home to Mullingar to meet his mum, in the hopes that she’ll be able to tell him what to do. 

She loves Harry, of course, and it’s only partly because mums universally adore him. Mostly it’s because he takes an avid and apparently genuine interest in the vast collection of decorative crucifixes she’s amassed over the past two centuries. 

“It’s just a myth about vampires and crosses, you know,” she explains to a fascinated Harry, showing him the _piece de resistance_ of her collection: an elaborate gold crucifix encrusted with semiprecious stones. “I’m of good strong Irish Catholic stock, and so is Niall. It's only holy water you've got to look out for. See, look here, that’s genuine moonstone.”

“It’s lovely,” Harry agrees, beaming at her. Privately Niall thinks it’s a little gaudy, but she’d picked it out herself at the Vatican gift shop when he took her there for her hundred and fiftieth birthday. He’s got a statue of Obama in his garden, so maybe he’s not one to talk. 

“You’d never know he was raised in a good religious family though, would you?” his mum asks Harry, making a seamless transition into her second favorite pastime: bemoaning Niall’s moral failings. “Always with the swearing and the drinking, and he won’t go to mass anymore unless I drag him there by the ear. You seem like a lovely child, Harry. I’m sure you never gave your mother a moment’s trouble.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” When Niall rolls his eyes at him over her head, Harry adds with a cheeky little grin, “Though I’ve been told I’m a very good boy.” 

“Yes, love, I know, and you’d both do well to remember these walls are quite thin,” she says, patting his knee absently. The utterly mortified expression on Harry’s face makes Niall laugh so hard his mother has to send him out into garden so she can show Harry the rest of her crucifixes in peace. 

“She likes you,” Niall reassures a still-blushing Harry later that night, spooning up behind him and nuzzling his face into Harry’s curls. “She used to give me such hell about wanking in the house as a teenager, you’ve no idea. But she’s been sneaking the postman in on Tuesday afternoons for about twenty years now, so she hasn’t got a leg to stand on.” 

*

“I like him,” his mother says to Niall the next morning when they’re doing the washing up after breakfast. It’s snowed overnight - barely more than a dusting of white, but enough to make the sidewalk ice over. Harry’s insisted on shoveling it on his own, as part of his self-imposed penance for having had noisy sex in his boyfriend’s mum’s house. 

“Yeah,” Niall says. “I thought you would.” 

They both watch as Harry struggles valiantly with an ancient shovel his mother had unearthed from the garden shed, clearing a few inches at a time. 

It’s lucky there aren’t any fans hanging around to witness it. When they come too close to the house, they tend to get distracted and suddenly remember urgent obligations elsewhere. _Too much giggling_ , was his mum’s explanation when he’d asked. 

“Mum,” he says suddenly while they’re drying the dishes. “Mum, when you – I mean. With you and Dad. Why do you reckon it didn’t work out?”

It’s not the question he meant to ask, not exactly, but she seems to understand what he’s really saying. They’ve known each other so long, been through so much together. She probably knew the second he and Harry walked in the front door.

“Oh, love, that’s different,” his mother says, turning off the water. “It was a different world then, and we weren’t mad for each other to begin with. I suppose we might’ve been happy enough, if our lives had gone the ordinary way. But we both had time to think better of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Niall says. He can’t look at her. “I’m so sorry. If it hadn’t been for me, you two never would’ve – ”

“Hush now, none of that,” she says gently, taking the plate from him and setting it down on the counter. “I don’t blame you, love, and I never have, not once. You’ve always thought it was the very worst thing, being the way we are. But it can be a gift, too.” 

“I don’t know,” Niall says.

“I do,” she says, more firmly. “I do know, love. It’s not for everyone. But your boy’s got a good head on his shoulders, and he’s got you. If it’s what he wants – if it’s what you both want – I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t.”

*

After dinner, Niall takes Harry out for pints at his favorite drinking spot, an old hole-in-the-wall pub a few streets over. They’re halfway through their third round when Harry starts getting giggly and demanding that Niall document the evening via Snapchat – _for posterity,_ as he says. 

“Snapchat can’t be for posterity, Harry,” Niall explains for the millionth time. “That’s the whole point of it. It’s for like, dick pics.”

The word _dick_ sends Harry into another fit of giggles, because he’s actually a child. Niall rolls his eyes and holds up his phone so he can snap a quick and deeply unflattering photo of Harry mid-guffaw. 

He’s just typing a caption – _For posterity !! Love Hazza and Neil_ – to send to the boys when someone clears their throat above them. 

“Well, if isn't Niall Horan.” 

The voice is quiet but cool, authoritative. Niall hasn't heard it in nearly a century, but it doesn't matter. He'd know it anywhere. 

The man standing in front of their booth is as handsome as he remembers: tall and dark-haired with finely drawn features, somewhere in his mid thirties by the looks of it. He’s smiling down at Niall, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Jack,” Niall says stiffly, putting his phone face down on the table. Harry's watching them both, his expression curious. “I didn’t know you were back in Ireland.”

“London still, actually," Jack says. “Just passing through. Visiting some of the old haunts.” He looks at Harry, his grin widening. “You must be Harry. We don't often get celebrities in Mullingar. They've been talking about you two all over town.”

“And you are?” Harry asks, polite but a bit cautious. 

“Jack Healy. An old friend of Niall’s,” he says, extending his hand. “A _very_ old friend, you might say.” 

Harry's eyes widen. “Oh. You’re, um,” he says, lowering his voice. “Like Niall?” 

Jack laughs, clearly delighted. “So you've told him!” he says to Niall. “It must be serious, then. I must admit I never expected to see you so – settled.” He turns to Harry, smiling blandly. “I looked after him for a while, you know. But he’s told you about his wayward youth, surely. Our wild nights together in London?”

“He never tells me anything,” Harry says. He leans forward eagerly. “Have you got loads of stories, then? I want to hear them.”

“It’s getting late,” Niall says. “Nice to see you, Jack. We should get going.” 

"Oh, you don't really have to go, do you?" Jack's voice is different when he addresses Harry now – coyer somehow, more intimate, like they're sharing a private joke. He gives Harry a long, slow, appraising look that makes Niall’s skin crawl. “Wouldn't you rather stay and buy an old friend a pint?”

“Harry,” Niall says, but Harry just blinks owlishly at him. Jack’s always been gifted at laying on a compulsion.

“No,” he says. “I want to stay, Niall. We should buy your friend a drink.”

“That's very kind of you, Harry,” Jack says smoothly. “Why don't you go order us another round while Niall and I catch up?”

“Yes,” Harry says, getting to his feet. “I’ll go order us another round.” He looks slightly lost, like he's not sure what he's doing. Niall's hands are clenched into fists under the table, his nails biting into the skin, but he schools his expression into something more impassive. 

“Take your time, Harry,” Jack says. When Harry's stumbled off in the direction of the bar he slides into the booth across from Niall. 

“So biddable, isn't he?” he says pleasantly, as if they're discussing the weather. “I imagine he'd do anything you told him to, with the right degree of – persuasion. Have you had him, then? Does he taste as sweet as he looks?” 

“Don't talk about him like that,” Niall blurts out, which is a mistake. Jack raises one eyebrow, interested, and Niall forces himself not to look for Harry at the bar, not to draw any more attention to him than he already has.

As casually as he can, he says, “He's not your type anyway, Jack.”

Jack grins at him. “Oh really? Young and pretty and weak-minded? I might have thought you’d picked him out specially for me, if you didn’t look so unpleasantly surprised to see me here. Our tastes are rather more similar than I’d thought.” 

He glances over Niall’s shoulder then, and Niall can’t help himself – he whips his head around to see Harry weaving his way back through the crowd back to their booth, three pints balanced precariously in his arms.

 _Go home_ , he thinks desperately, _go home go home go home_ , but Harry doesn’t even look up, too focused on not tripping over his own feet. 

When Jack stands up, Niall gets to his feet so quickly he almost upsets the half-empty pints still resting on the table. 

“Relax,” Jack says, looking amused. “When I saw the two of you here I thought we might share him, for old times’ sake. But I see you’ve grown territorial in your old age. I won’t disturb you further.” 

He’s gone before Harry reaches the table. Niall watches him move through the crowd, quick and dark as a shadow. 

“Oh,” Harry says, looking disappointed. Some of the beer he’s carrying has sloshed over onto his jumper, soaking part of his sleeve through. “Has he gone, then?”

“Let’s go,” Niall says. 

“I’ve just bought these!” Harry protests, but Niall’s already dragging him towards the door. 

They duck out the back entrance to avoid the few fans who are still loitering out front, then trudge the few blocks home in the dark. His mother’s in bed already, her window dark. 

Niall lets them in the garden door with his key. He bolts it behind him before he goes to put the kettle on, Harry trailing into the kitchen after him.

“Is everything all right?” 

“Of course,” Niall says. He keeps his back to Harry, fiddling with the range. “Go sit down at the table. It’ll just be a minute.” 

He stares at the crucifix hung over the stove while the water heats up. They’ll be gone in the morning. Maybe they can go to L.A. for a bit until tour starts, stay at Harry’s place there. Jack’s not the type to keep up with the tabloids. If they give London a wide berth for a while, surely he’ll forget about them soon enough. He’s too old – _older than England_ , he used to tell Niall – an ancient predator, his lifespan measured in millennia, not centuries.

Two hundred years is nothing to a creature like Jack. Harry’s brief mortal life will be little more than a flicker, over in the blink of an eye. 

The kettle starts to whistle. 

“You never told me you lived in London before,” Harry says.

“Just for a few years,” Niall says, dumping tea bags in the hot water. His hands are shaking slightly, the way they always seem to do when he thinks of Jack. “It was a long time ago.”

Harry’s quiet for a minute. Then he asks, “Did you two live together?”

“We weren't fucking, if that's what you're asking.” It comes out sharper than he intended, and Harry flinches back a little, surprised. Niall can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken to Harry like that, and it’s usually only when Harry’s done something idiotic and dangerous, like gone out shopping without his security detail. 

“That's not what I meant,” Harry says. “I just didn't know you had many vampire friends, that's all.”

“Jack's not a friend,” Niall says. “He’s just somebody I knew when I was younger. I don't want to talk about him anymore.”

“Fine,” Harry snaps. “Whatever.”

Niall carries the mugs of tea over and sets them down carefully on the table. Then he puts his arms around Harry from behind, pulling him close so he can nuzzle against his shoulder. 

Harry doesn’t relax into the touch like he usually does. He’s tense, clearly irritated. 

“Sorry,” Niall murmurs. “Didn’t mean to snap. Just took me by surprise, seeing him there. We don’t get on well, me and Jack.” 

He turns his head and nips lightly at the rim of Harry's ear to distract him.

It works, a little. Makes Harry shiver in his arms. 

“I just wish you'd talk to me,” he says, tilting his head to give Niall better access. He sighs when Niall starts pressing little kisses along the line of his jaw. “I tell you stuff all the time, about my mum and Gemma and my friends, but I don't know anything about your life before all this. I’ve known you for four years now and I’ve still got no idea who you were before you showed up for that audition.” 

“It wasn’t much of a life, Harry,” Niall says. “Honest. I don’t - there's nothing much to tell.”

It’s not a lie, not really. There’s nothing about the time before Harry he wants to remember. The early years in London with Jack are a blur of bloodlust and confusion and sick self-loathing. He’d been too lost and too helpless then to look after himself, to do anything other than blindly follow his maker.

Not that things improved much after he shook himself free. After Jack it was decade after decade of loneliness and restless boredom, of drinking and sleeping and trying not to think. Of feeding furtively in dark alleyways that stank of piss, or in broken-down toilets at loud, packed clubs, always going home alone. 

The thought of returning to that life makes him want to put a stake through his own heart. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. Instead he tips Harry's head back and kisses him, hungry for the taste of his mouth. Harry lets him, melting back against him in slow degrees, some of the tension bleeding from him.

It's good, but it's not enough. Niall feels shaken still, keyed up and restless. He can’t stop thinking about how he froze up in the pub, like he was nineteen years old and prey all over again, helpless to defend his family. 

He keeps replaying it in his mind, the way Jack raked his hungry eyes over Harry's body and he just – sat there, powerless. _I thought we might share._

A surge of desperation wells up inside him. 

“Let me suck you off,” he breathes against Harry's lips. “Please. Want to make you feel good.”

“Your mum's asleep,” Harry says guardedly, which means he’s not quite forgiven Niall for snapping at him. 

“Guess we'll have to be quiet, then,” Niall says, coming around the front of Harry's chair. He sinks to his knees in front of him and puts his hands on Harry's legs, sliding his palms up his thighs. Harry looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. 

It's not how this usually goes between them. It’s not usually Niall on his knees, begging for it. But everything’s off tonight, the world knocked askew on its axis, his past and his present violently colliding. He hasn't felt like this in a long time – this helpless, this out of control. He’s desperate for something to take him out of his own head. 

“Fine,” Harry says after a moment. “Okay.” 

“Tell me,” Niall says, his heart suddenly in his throat. “Like – the way I do, with you.” 

He doesn't know how else to ask for it. But Harry seems to understand. 

“You want me to tell you what to do?” 

Niall nods, his throat tight. 

Harry cups his face in one broad hand for a moment, pressing his thumb over his bottom lip. Then he unzips his jeans and takes out his cock, letting it rest against his thigh. He's mostly soft still, just a little stiff from kissing.

“Suck me off, then,” he says. There’s a quiet intensity in his voice Niall's never heard there before. It sends a spark shivering down his spine. “Make me come.”

Usually when Niall blows Harry he likes to tease him, use all the little tricks he knows will make him squirm. He likes to take Harry right up to the edge and then keep him there for ages, till there are tears in his eyes and he’s begging to be allowed release. 

Tonight, though, he wants what Harry wants – to make him come. To feel like he can do that much for him, at least. 

So he doesn't waste time. He takes as much of Harry into his mouth as he can fit, sucking him gently to full hardness, feeling him fatten up on his tongue. Niall doesn’t look up at him, so he doesn’t know if Harry’s watching him or not. When Harry spreads his thighs wider he shuffles forward awkwardly until he gags a little, the head of Harry’s cock nudging at the back of his throat. 

Harry's almost silent throughout. Only the slight hitch in his breathing, the faint trembling in his thighs, indicates that he’s at all affected by what Niall’s doing to him. 

It makes Niall work harder, suck faster, trying to elicit some response. After a few minutes Harry gets a hand in his hair and tugs hard, making him groan. Harry's not the only one who likes it rough. 

“Let me – yeah?” Harry says suddenly, lifting his hips up a little from the chair, and Niall understands. He goes still in Harry's lap, relaxing as much as he can as Harry pushes forward, his cock sliding inch by inch down Niall's throat.

There's nowhere to go, nothing to do but take it. Harry's got a hand on the back of his head, holding him in place as he starts to fuck his throat. 

“I've got you,” Harry murmurs. “I've got you.”

When Harry comes, he holds himself there for a beat too long, his thighs quivering, his hand tight in Niall's hair. Niall doesn't actually _need_ oxygen anymore – breathing is more just habit, really - but he still feels a sudden, instinctive spike of panic, threatening to shatter his fragile calm.

Harry must feel the change too, because he pulls out quickly. He slides out of the chair, sinking down to the floor beside him so he can get an arm around Niall's waist. 

He’s not sure how long they stay there like that, leaning against each other, Harry stroking his hair. After a while Harry says softly, "You want to talk about it?"

He wouldn’t know where to start. 

Harry’s _good_ , is the thing. He’s sweet and gentle and beautiful, so full of life and light it makes Niall ache sometimes to look at him. There’s not an ounce of darkness in him. 

Niall can’t be the one to destroy that. He won’t.

He turns his face into Harry's shoulder. "I’m knackered,” he says instead of answering, his voice wrecked. For a minute he thinks Harry’s going to push it, make him talk, but he only sighs and kisses the top of Niall’s head. 

“Okay,” he says finally. “Yeah. Let’s get you to bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up readers, it's going to be an angsty ride. 
> 
> chapter-specific warnings: brief descriptions of past violence/related trauma, about two seconds of Ziall, and a couple instances of slightly dubious consent. 
> 
> special thanks to [harrymynewborngiraffe](http://www.harrymynewborngiraffe.tumblr.com), for reading my drafts and helping me ensure that everyone suffers as much as possible.

In the early years, when he was living with Jack in London, Niall used to play a game called _what if_. 

He used to drive himself half-mad with it, lying awake through long, restless nights, going over it all in his head. What if he hadn’t been late that evening, hadn’t cut through the woods, hadn’t headed straight for home. What if Jack had passed through that remote part of Ireland a day early, a day late, a hundred years before or after. What if Niall hadn’t been _young and pretty and weak-minded_ , the easiest and most tempting of prey.

When he'd finally gotten free from Jack – when Jack got bored and cut him loose, more like – Niall stopped playing _what if_. If he couldn’t control what had happened to him in the past, the best he could hope for was to try and forget it. He’d taken the memories of those early years and locked them away somewhere deep down inside himself. Then he’d gone home to Ireland, spinning some lie to his parents about Jack showing him the ropes in London. His mum had been so happy to have him back she’d accepted his excuses and apologies without hesitation, folding him into her arms and sobbing into his hair. 

Niall has no idea what those years must have been like for her, alone and suddenly childless, her life forever altered through no fault of her own. He knows it can’t have been easy, whatever she says to make him feel better. But he’s never had the guts to ask. 

*

The nightmares start a few days after they go back on tour. 

In his dream he’s wandering alone through his house in London. It’s nighttime; the house is silent, almost eerily so, and a fine layer of dust covers everything. The place feels unlived-in, though as he climbs the stairs he catches the faint, clinging scent of Harry’s cologne lingering on the air. He must have been here recently, then. Maybe he's here still. 

All the doors along the upstairs corridors are ajar, giving the impression that Harry’s been flitting restlessly from room to room in his absence. Niall opens each door in turn, but the rooms beyond are empty, crowded only with dark furniture and shadows.

The last room is the master suite. Harry’s scent is strongest here. When Niall pushes the door open, his eyes widen in surprise. Harry’s lying naked on the bed, facedown, the lower half of his body covered by the duvet. The pale, unmarked skin of his back gleams milky white against the black sheets. 

A wide band of moonlight spills through the large glass windows, leaving his face in shadow.

Niall moves towards him, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

“Wake up, love,” he says softly, crouching by the side of the bed. He leans in closer to tuck a strand of Harry’s hair behind his ear, only to recoil back as if he’s been burned. 

Harry’s eyes aren’t shut in sleep. They’re wide open, staring fixed and unseeing into the darkness.

“No,” Niall breathes, “no, please, _please_ —”

He struggles to roll Harry over onto his back, Harry’s arm flopping limply, uselessly at his side. The sight that greets him makes him gag, his stomach heaving. 

Harry’s pale, beautiful throat has been almost torn out, savaged beyond recognition. His face is intact, but there are deep, bloody bites all across his shoulders and chest, like he’s been mauled by some kind of vicious beast. The sheets beneath aren’t black, he realizes. They’re soaked with blood - Harry’s blood.

Something inside of him breaks. 

Niall doesn’t weep. He just touches his face as tenderly as he can, as if his own gentleness could undo some small portion of Harry’s suffering. Harry’s skin is freezing to the touch, but once Niall’s started it’s like he can’t stop himself, can’t keep himself from sliding his hands over the parts of Harry that are still whole. He traces the line of his jaw with his fingertips, sweeps his hair gently away from his face, kisses his forehead again and again. He whispers his name till it loses all meaning – _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ a prayer to no one. 

“Oh dear, Niall,” someone says behind him in a cold, amused voice. “What have you done?”

Niall staggers to his feet, spinning around so violently he almost loses his balance. Jack is standing in the shadows, just behind the door. There’s blood all over his mouth, all down his front. Long, deep slashes score his cheek and the side of his neck. Harry must have died fighting. 

“You,” he snarls, the words almost choking him. “You did this.” 

He takes a step forward, then stops dead in his tracks. “What – what are you doing?” he asks. Jack’s narrow, handsome face is shifting before his eyes, his features dissolving, changing. His body body is shifting too, becoming slighter, shorter, more compact. It’s not until Jack’s hair begins to change, the dark, almost black sheen of it lightening in slow degrees to a straw-colored blond, that Niall understands.

“No,” he says, his voice trembling. “Stop that, stop – ”

The thing wearing his face smiles. Its fangs gleam in the darkness, cruel and white beneath the blood.

“ _You_ ,” it parrots back at him in his own voice, its tone mocking. “ _You did this_.”

*

Niall sits bolt upright in a hotel room, gasping. From the tangle of blankets next to him comes a sleepy noise of protest. 

“S’too early,” Harry mumbles, then wakes up a little more, lifting his head and blinking in confusion. “Ni?” he asks, sounding worried. “What’s wrong?” 

Niall can’t _think_. His head’s a mess, every nerve in his body screaming at him to do something – to run, to fight, to save himself.

“Go back to sleep, Harry,” he says firmly. Harry drops off almost immediately, his head falling back onto the pillow. It’s only belatedly that Niall realizes he’s never used a compulsion on Harry before, not in the entire time he’s known him. 

He collapses back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He clenches his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms. 

“I’m not,” he says aloud to the darkness. “I’m not like him.” 

*

When he wakes up again, Harry’s side of the bed is empty. Niall feels like he hasn’t slept at all. His head aches and his chest feels tight, almost painfully constricted. 

Harry’s brushing his teeth in the en suite, his hair damp, a towel slung low around his hips. He makes a funny face at Niall in the mirror when he comes in.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Harry says around his toothbrush. He looks well rested and exceedingly chipper, pretty much the exact opposite of how Niall feels. “’Cos I ordered waffles for breakfast. Loads and loads of waffles.”

 _You were dead_ , Niall wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. 

“I had this funny dream,” Harry says brightly. “That’s why I wanted waffles. We were all on, like, a cooking show together, you and me and the lads, and we had to make breakfast foods. Except we ran out of flour halfway through and all we had left was a jar of chalk dust.” He spits into the sink and turns on the faucet, rinsing the basin clean. “Liam was trying to help, but then he turned into a dog and had to go home. No pets allowed.”

Niall can’t think of anything to say. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Did we win?” 

“Third place,” Harry says with relish, like he’s been dying to be asked. “Can you believe it? Reckon it must be, like, a curse or something. Bet you anything Liam bought some cursed amulet in Egypt by mistake and now we’re doomed to never win anything properly.” 

“Not sure it can be a curse if it’s only happened twice,” Niall points out. 

Harry frowns. “I don’t know, I lose lots of games,” he says. “Like, I always come in third at Scrabble over the hols, and Robin doesn’t even play with us usually.” He twists around, reaching for Niall. “Kiss please?” 

Niall pulls away, shaking his head. “Got morning breath,” he says gruffly. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of kissing Harry right now makes him feel slightly ill. He keeps thinking about how cold dream-Harry’s skin had been.

A flicker of confusion crosses Harry’s face, but he recovers quickly. “Pretty sure I’ve tasted all your kinds of breath.” He leans against the counter and starts listing them on his fingers. “Morning breath, come breath, pizza breath, gum breath, toothpaste breath, beer breath, arse breath, waffle breath –” 

The knock on the hall door makes Niall nearly jump out of his skin. Harry stops listing things and looks at him more closely. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m fine,” Niall says. “I think your waffles are here.”

Harry doesn’t move. “You look really pale.”

“I’m Irish,” Niall says. “And a vampire. Put some clothes on before you get the door, for god’s sake. Don’t need to be giving everyone a free show all the time.” 

“Wow,” Harry says. “You’re a ray of sunshine this morning.”

There’s another knock. “Fine,” Niall says irritably. “I’ll just get that, shall I? No, stay here, or your secret gay romance is going to be all over the _Mirror_ tomorrow.”

“ _My_ secret gay romance?” Harry says. “Takes two to fuck, last I checked.”

Niall snorts. “Like anybody gives a shit who the rest of us are screwing.” 

Harry’s face falls. It’s a sore spot, the stuff the tabs print about him, and Niall knew it and said it anyway. He doesn’t even know why he’s acting like this, needling Harry over stupid shit he doesn’t even care about, but he can’t seem to stop. 

“You know, you were a lot nicer in my dream,” Harry says, in what’s obviously a last ditch effort to salvage the conversation. “You made me waffles and you let me hold the trophy and everything. And you told me – ”

“Stop,” Niall grits out. “Stop going on about your dream, all right? We’re not on a cooking show, I don’t know how to make waffles, and Liam’s never turned into a dog. It wasn’t _real_ , Harry, or do you not get that?”

Harry’s bottom lip starts trembling.

“Harry,” Niall says, suddenly stricken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – “ 

This time it’s Harry who shies back from his touch, sliding away from him along the counter. 

“I think you should probably eat breakfast somewhere else,” he says, his voice unsteady. “I don’t – um, I don’t really want to share mine with you anymore.”

“Harry,” Niall tries again. 

“Go away, please,” Harry says, turning his back on him and starting to rummage through his toiletries case, his shoulders tense. 

It’s the _please_ that does it, the politeness in Harry’s voice even when he’s telling Niall to fuck off. Niall feels like the worst person in the world. What makes it all even more unbearable is he’s not sure he’s in any state to patch things up right now. He feels just as tightly wound as before but twice as powerless. He doesn’t trust himself not to make it worse. 

On the way out he trips over something and goes down, jarring his bad knee hard. The door clicks shut behind him with a depressing finality. 

“Fuck,” Niall swears, and then sees what he’s fallen over: a large, covered silver tray, the contents of which are now scattered all over the hallway in front of their hotel room door. “Oh, fucking hell – ” 

He scrambles to shove the waffles back onto the tray, spending the next few minutes frantically picking carpet fuzz off them. Harry’s going to open the door at any minute and catch him there, and then Niall will have ruined his day and his breakfast, and to top it all off he still feels sick to his stomach with grief, unable to shake the image of Harry’s half-mutilated body from his mind. 

That’s how Zayn finds him, on his hands and knees trying to get bits of lint off a tray of waffles, perilously close to tears. He takes one look at Niall’s face and then forcibly steers him into his hotel room down the hall.

*

Niall spends the rest of the day getting high with Zayn, who takes his phone away and hides it under the bed somewhere so he can’t text Harry.

They’re lying side by side on Zayn’s bed after dinner, staring at the ceiling. Niall doesn’t feel a lot better, emotionally, but he feels a little calmer, mostly because his limbs seem to weigh a million pounds. He’s got this vague, half-articulated fear that soon he’ll be heavy enough to just sink through the bed, through the floor and right on down. Maybe he’ll just keep sinking forever, pulled down into the molten center of the earth. 

“Feels weird,” he says. “Feels like I should go over there.”

“Give him some space,” Zayn says patiently. “You can grovel tomorrow. S’not a bad idea to spend some time apart, you know, just in general. You guys are like, scary codependent sometimes.” 

“I dunno,” Niall says. “I just like being near him, I guess.” 

He rolls over onto his side, curling up against Zayn. “I like how he smells,” he says. "I like how he talks and I like hearing about his dreams. I like that he thinks they’re funny and they aren’t. They’re always, like, shit about being on cooking shows, or cleaning somebody’s house, or something stupid. He has this recurring dream about being late to a doctor’s appointment – that’s it, that’s the whole dream, it’s at half past two and he shows up an hour late. But when he tells me about it, he just - I mean, once he snorted milk through his nose ‘cos he was laughing so hard.”

“He’s a fucking weirdo,” Zayn says fondly. 

Niall laughs. “Yeah, but. I like that too, you know? That he’s weird and not in a cool way. He’s probably the least mysterious person I’ve ever met and he’s still – it’s like he still just fascinates the hell out of me, even so. And that’s on top of the fact that he’s gorgeous and he has the best tasting blood ever.” He shivers a little, just thinking about it. “God, Zayn, he tastes so fucking good.”

“Spare me the details,” Zayn says, blowing out smoke. They both watch it rise, lazy tendrils of it drifting up towards the ceiling. “Guess you should enjoy it while you can, though. Think it’ll be weird when he’s, like, one of you?”

The good, shivery feeling vanishes. 

Zayn says it like it’s a foregone conclusion. And it _is_ , Niall supposes, or was; even before he’d asked his mum, it feels like he’s been on the road to forever with Harry for months now. He has no idea how he let things get this far. How he let himself get so swept up in this unreal life he’s been living, in the fantasy that he might not have to let Harry go. 

Niall’s eyes feel red and painfully dry, like the lids are scratching against his eyeballs every time he blinks.

“Hey,” Zayn says. “You okay?” 

“No,” Niall says hoarsely. “Zayn, I’m – I’m not going to turn him.”

He shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, Zayn’s looking at him, his expression unreadable.

“This isn’t because of this morning, is it?” he asks carefully. “Because if so that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, no offense. Everybody fights, Niall. I mean – you and Haz don’t usually, I guess, but you guys are really fucking weird in that respect.”

“It’s not that,” Niall says. “It’s got nothing to do with that.” 

“Then what’s the problem?” Zayn says. “He wants it, you want him, and if you do it maybe the rest of us won’t have to listen to him yammer on anymore about how many beds you two are going to break having awesome vampire sex. You really shouldn’t let him read _Twilight_ , you know.”

“That’s exactly it, though,” Niall says, frustrated. “That’s the whole problem. He thinks the whole vampire thing is about, like, having sparkly skin and shirtless men fighting over you in the woods or whatever. It’s not, Zayn. It's more like being stuck forever, right where you are, and knowing you’re never gonna be able to move on, no matter how much you want to just get _out_.” 

“So go somewhere else,” Zayn says. “If you feel stuck, I mean. Join a boy band. See the world. Run for president of Ireland and, like, shag Obama. I dunno. Reckon Harry would probably let you, if he got to watch.”

“It’s not just that,” Niall says. He doesn’t know how to make Zayn understand - what it feels like. What he used to feel like all the time, before Harry sailed into his life and made him forget. Made him want things he can’t have, not anymore. 

The dream flashes through his mind again. 

“I could kill you,” he says suddenly. “Right now, if I wanted to.”

“Okay, Edward,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. “And I could kill you back, probably. Like, if you were sleeping and I snuck up on you and dropped a rock on your head. Not that I would, mind. I’m just saying, you don't have to have fangs to do somebody in.”

“I could make you do stuff, too," Niall says. If his heart was still beating it'd be pounding now. He's not told anyone this bit except for Harry. “Stuff you didn’t want to do, stuff you never thought you'd want to do. I could - I could make you kiss me.”

Zayn looks skeptical. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Listen, I know everyone seems to think the five of us are fucking each other’s brains out backstage at every opportunity, but we pretty much leave that to you and Harry.”

“Kiss me,” Niall says, letting his voice go low and soft.

Zayn’s amused expression goes suddenly slack. Without a word, he leans in and presses his mouth to Niall’s, hand coming up to cup the side of his face. 

Niall holds him there for a moment, tastes the smoke on his lips, before he ends the compulsion. 

Zayn jerks away from him abruptly, sitting up in bed. He looks at Niall like he’s never seen him before in his life. 

“Jesus,” he says shakily, touching his mouth with his fingertips. “The fuck was that?”

“That’s me,” Niall says, sitting up too. “That’s what I am.” 

Zayn shakes his head as if to clear it. Niall remembers what that feels like, the fuzzy feeling the compulsion leaves behind it, like someone’s stopped your ears halfway up with cotton wool. It makes him shudder to think about it. 

“Stop it,” Zayn says. “Whatever crazy shit you’re thinking about yourself, just stop it. You’re acting like you’re some kind of supervillain right now, you know that? Like you’re evil. But you’re just – you’re Niall, okay? You’re Niall and we love you, and Harry loves you, and if you want to break up with him you should do it because you don’t love him back, not because you’ve got some kind of complex about being a vampire.”

“You don’t get it,” Niall says. “I’ve _hurt_ people, Zayn. I’m not going to hurt Harry. And if I don’t turn him then there’s no future for us. There’s no point to any of this.”

“You’re going to hurt him more if you leave and you know it,” Zayn says bluntly. “You’re going to stomp all over his weird little heart and leave everybody else to pick up the pieces, ‘cos that’s easier than sticking around. He’s stupidly, madly in love with you, fangs and all. And if you're really going to throw that away, just 'cos you've suddenly got cold feet, then maybe you deserve to be alone. You’re two hundred years old, Niall. Stop acting like a spoiled child.” 

The last remnants of Niall’s calm evaporate. Zayn doesn’t get it and he never will. Niall’s doing this for Harry, not for himself. He’s not Jack. Or if he is – if deep down he’s the same kind of monster – at least he has the self-control not to take someone else down with him. 

“You’re one to talk about sticking around,” he says.

Zayn’s head whips up, his eyes narrowing. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Come on, Zayn,” Niall says. “You’ve had one foot out the door for months now. Can’t be arsed to show up for half the shit we’re meant to be at, always making the rest of us carry the load. Whinging on about how you want to make _real music_. When were you planning to tell us, anyway? Before or after your first album drops?” 

It feels good, being mad. Anger’s more powerful than grief, and more purifying somehow, like if he lets it get hot enough it might burn away the sick dread he’s been feeling ever since that night in the pub in Mullingar. Fighting with Zayn is easier and more satisfying than fighting with Harry, too. Zayn doesn’t try to pretend like nothing’s amiss the way Harry does, doesn’t act like if he personally can stay positive enough everyone will eventually learn to love each other and live in harmony. Zayn gets mad right back. 

“Don’t you dare,” he’s saying now, a hot flush climbing up his neck. “Don’t you dare fucking try and turn this around on me.”

“I’m right, though,” Niall says bitterly. “Aren’t I. You’re quitting.” 

“Fuck you,” Zayn says. “Seriously, Niall, fuck you. You’re so caught up in your own bullshit it’s like you’ve got no space left in your head to care about what’s going on in other people’s. As if you’re the only person who’s ever felt stuck.” 

He slides over to the end of the mattress and starts putting his shoes on, lacing up his trainers with trembling fingers. 

“Where are you going?” Niall asks. 

“Out,” Zayn says shortly. He stands up, grabbing his leather jacket off the back of the chair and shrugging it on. 

“You can’t just leave,” Niall says, and he’s not sure if he means now or ever. 

Zayn pauses, his hand on the door handle, and for a crazy second Niall thinks he’s going to come back, that Zayn’s going take off his shoes and climb back onto the bed and tell him it’s fine, that they’re okay. 

But he just turns and says quietly, “You know, he was over the fucking moon when you invited him to your mum’s. Going on and on to anyone who’d listen about how you were taking him to spend the holidays with your family.”

Niall remembers. Remembers how flushed and happy and nervous Harry was the whole week leading up to the trip. How he got himself so worked up on the flight over Niall had to drag him into the toilet and kiss him quiet, pressed up against the folding door. 

“Told Liam he thought you might do it then,” Zayn says. “Kept saying it’d be proper romantic. Christmastime in Ireland, the two of you together. Like something out of a film.”

“Don’t,” Niall says, but there’s no force behind it. 

“Whatever,” Zayn says, and then he’s gone. 

*

Harry seeks him out first. He flops down in the seat beside him on the plane the next day, chattering on about some article his mum’s sent him about dolphin emotions. He seems determined to act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened, and it’s easier to just – play along. 

Across the aisle Zayn keeps shooting him dirty looks over Liam’s head. Niall had spent the rest of the night alone, falling asleep curled up on Zayn’s bed, the telly playing infomercials on low. 

Niall ignores him. He just listens to Harry talk, the slow, familiar cadences of his voice lulling him into a state of something like calm. 

“They get sad too, you know,” Harry says, and there’s something odd in his voice, a slight catch that startles Niall out of his reverie. He’s got his screen open to the photograph of a sleek grey dolphin, swimming alone in the middle of a wide, empty sea. “Like, they grieve, if a dolphin they love dies. Their baby, or, um, their mate. They carry their bodies up to the surface instead of burying them. ‘Cos I guess you can’t really dig a grave with flippers, can you.” 

He breaks off, staring at his phone. There’s a slightly lost expression on his face.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly. “I do talk some shit.” 

“No,” Niall says, a lump in his throat. “No, you’re – God, Haz, I was such an arse to you yesterday. I was grumpy and I took it out on you and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” 

“I know you are,” Harry says. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “Just, like. If something’s wrong you can tell me, you know? If you’re not happy, or you need some space, or whatever. I mean, when I’m sad I like to talk to you, or be near you, ‘cos you always make me feel better. But when you’re sad it’s like – it’s like you go off somewhere in your head all by yourself, and I don’t even know what you’re thinking.” 

“That’s not – ” Niall starts to say, then stops. “You make me feel better too, Haz. You do. I always feel better when you’re with me.” 

It’s the truth, even if it’s not quite an answer. He slides a hand over Harry’s thigh anyway, squeezing lightly, comfortingly. After a moment Harry covers it with his own, tangling their fingers together. 

*

The end comes faster than he’d expected.

Zayn leaves a few weeks later. When he tells them officially, a couple weeks before he’s meant to go home for good, Louis throws a glass at his head. It hits the wall and explodes into a thousand bright, jagged pieces, making Zayn curse and flinch away. Liam cries. Harry doesn’t say anything, won’t look at anyone, just gets up and leaves. 

Niall doesn’t follow him. 

After that, it takes them a while to agree on what’s going to happen next. They spend weeks in a state of indecision, in talks with management and the label execs all day, playing concerts nightly and pretending like everything’s fine. The four of them argue with each other in a series of hotel rooms that all look exactly alike, going over the limited slate of options available to them until everyone’s sick to death of talking. 

In the end they vote unanimously to finish out the tour. Cancelling it would be too difficult, and none of them really wants to deal with the backlash from the fans. After that they’ll take an open-ended hiatus. Louis’s lawyers have found a loophole in their contract that will allow them to delay recording the fifth album indefinitely. 

Probably forever, though nobody says it out loud.

The night they finally agree on the break, Niall dreams he’s fighting his way through the heart of a dark, overgrown forest. Something is hunting him, gliding stealthily through the darkness behind him, and he’s long since lost the path. In his chest his heart is beating out a frantic, uneven rhythm, the same words running through his mind: _my fault my fault my fault_. He’s the one who caught its eye, after all, the one who’s about to lead it straight home to the people he loves. He might as well’ve opened the door and invited the devil himself in for tea. 

A bird screeches somewhere in the night, swooping down on its unsuspecting prey. Niall catches his foot on a tangle of roots and goes down hard, his ankle twisting painfully beneath him. He’s sobbing in terror now but he’s trying to keep quiet, stifling his own cries with a hand over his mouth to avoid drawing attention to himself. 

And then it’s on him, it’s _there_ , smelling of blood and darkness and ancient earth, bending over him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach its eyes. 

“Such a pretty boy,” Jack says, reaching for him with long, thin fingers, and Niall screams and lashes out, fighting with the last of his breath for a life that’s already lost. He wrestles Jack underneath him, and for a moment he feels a brief surge of triumph. He’s going to win this time, he’s going to save himself, save his family—

—and then the body beneath him stirs and he startles himself awake, disoriented and confused, to find it isn’t Jack he’s got pinned but Harry, naked and still mostly asleep, murmuring something inaudible.

"Sorry,” Niall breathes. Harry turns his face, lips pressing lightly against Niall’s skin.

“S’nice,” Harry sighs sleepily. He doesn't seem at all perturbed to discover Niall on top of him, just parts his legs instinctively so Niall can settle more easily between them.

Harry’s half-hard already, maybe from some dream of his own. Niall can feel the familiar line of his cock against his thigh. Something in him is shifting, fear giving way to desire. 

It’s been weeks since they’ve had sex. Niall stays on the bus with Louis more often than not these days, claiming that Louis needs the support (he doesn’t, he barely talks to any of them), that he sleeps better in a familiar space, that he doesn’t want to wake Harry with his nightmares. The stress they’ve been under since Zayn’s departure has made it easier to pull away. They’ve all been stressed and overburdened, learning new parts and dealing with lawyers and lying through their teeth to the media. Even when he does share Harry’s bed, it’s only to fall immediately into an exhausted sleep. 

He’s started quietly ordering from the blood bank again too, though he hasn’t told Harry that yet. He hasn’t made up his mind what he’s going to say. 

Getting off with Harry would definitely be a step backwards. It’s just – right now it feels like he needs it, the way he did that night in Mullingar, when he saw Jack for the first time and it all came rushing back. In the aftermath of his nightmare it seems incredibly urgent to have Harry as close to him as possible - to be inside him, if he can, to let the taste and feel and heat of him crowd out the bad thoughts, just for a while.

"Haz," he murmurs. “Can you – can we – ”

Harry doesn’t even open his eyes. “Not gonna do any work,” he grumbles, voice deep and sleep-muzzy. 

“I’ll do it,” Niall promises quickly. “I’ve got it. You just – you rest, okay? Gonna take care of you.”

He palms Harry’s cock with one hand, reaching across his body with the other to find the lube Harry keeps in a little bag in the nightstand. He snicks off the cap, squeezing some out onto his fingers, before sliding them down to probe gently between Harry’s legs. 

It’s a tighter fit than usual, but Niall coaxes him open easily enough, working a couple fingers into him. Harry doesn’t need much more than two; he likes it best when he can feel the stretch of it, his pleasure edged with the tiniest sliver of pain. Niall likes it that way too, usually. Likes the feeling of opening him up on his cock, the knowledge that Harry’s letting Niall give him just a little more than he can take comfortably. 

He doesn’t want it like that tonight. 

Tonight he takes his time with it, fingers Harry open so slowly and carefully he’s pretty sure Harry dozes off again, the slight line between his eyes smoothing out in sleep. There's something almost unbearably intimate about the way Harry trusts him - enough to leave his body in his care, enough to let Niall make him feel good.

Niall wants to be worthy of that trust. He wants it so badly it makes him grit his teeth, makes his eyes burn with tears. He wants to get Harry relaxed and wet and ready for him, so open there won’t be even a twinge of discomfort when Niall finally sinks into him, just the slow hot pleasure of being spread open and filled. 

When Harry’s taking three fingers comfortably, he bends down to mouth over the head of his cock, tonguing at the slit. Harry makes a contented little nose, turning his face into the pillow, and Niall tucks his pinkie in alongside the others. 

That makes Harry’s breath hitch. He’s awake now, moving his hips in slow lazy circles, bearing down on the fingers inside him.

"C’mere," he mumbles, nails raking through Niall’s hair. "No more teasing.”

Niall makes him wait a little longer - because he can, because he wants to savor it. He kisses his way slowly back up Harry’s body, lingering over the laurels, the moth, the swallows under his collarbones. He maps the topography of his skin with his mouth and tongue, till Harry’s twisting restlessly beneath him, murmuring. 

When he reaches Harry’s throat he avoids the place where he usually bites him, even though everything in him is crying out for him to sink his fangs into Harry’s flesh, to taste the rich sweetness of him again on his tongue. The mark is faded now, barely visible in the darkness. It’ll heal on its own, if it’s left alone. 

“Niall,” Harry murmurs, urging him upwards, and he brings their mouths together, kissing him deeply. Harry slips his arms round his neck, holding him there. 

“Lift up for me, pet,” Niall says softly, and Harry does, legs coming up to bracket his hips, taking him inside. 

They rock against each other for a long time, barely moving, Harry’s breath warm against his cheek. Neither of them speaks. It feels like a dream, the slow, half-conscious way their bodies move together, suspended in the hazy moment between sleep and waking. It feels like a memory, fading already at the edges, the details dissolving into pure, wordless sensation. 

It feels like goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, a new chapter! thanks so much for your patience between updates - this is the first long thing I've ever written, and I've been learning so much about the challenges of plotting a longer narrative arc. this chapter is a little bit shorter than the previous ones, because there's a Very Important scene sequence coming up that needed to be contained in one chapter. the next installment is currently 6k and, god willing, should be up in the next week or two. right now it's looking like there will be one or maybe two more chapters of about this length, followed by an epilogue.
> 
> chapter specific warnings: sad boys.
> 
> as always, thanks to [harrymynewborngiraffe](http://www.tumblr.com/harrymynewborngiraffe), who yelled "YOU'RE NEVER GOING TO FINISH IT STOP LYING TO ME" at me until I finished it, and also listened to me talk through a million versions of the plot.

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s to Harry naked in his lap, sinking slowly down onto his cock. 

“What,” Niall says weakly, head thumping back onto the pillow.

For a long moment his brain just sort of—short-circuits, unable to process anything but velvety heat and the slow easy give of Harry opening up around him. He’s wet and open from last night, slick inside with lube and come, and maybe it’s filthy but it feels so amazing Niall can’t help but rock his hips up to meet him, drawing a soft involuntary sound from Harry’s lips. 

When he’s fully seated Harry goes still, fingers splaying wide over his own thighs. His eyes flutter shut as he shifts minutely, settling, like he’s learning the feel of Niall inside him all over again. 

Then he opens his eyes and starts to move. 

It’s going to be over fast, is the first thing Niall thinks. Harry rides him hard, shifting up onto his knees and slamming down into his lap till they’re both breathless and panting. Niall tries to touch him, but he’s slapped away.

“Don’t,” Harry says sharply, the first words he’s said since they started. 

Niall feels the first, faint stirrings of unease. He reaches for him again—wanting to feel the hot, heavy press of him against his palm, needing it suddenly—and this time Harry grabs his wrists and pins them to the mattress over his head, forcing him still. The change of angle makes them both gasp, Harry’s breath stuttering for a moment before he collects himself, hips reestablishing the same punishing rhythm. 

That’s weird, too. It’s not like Harry _never_ sets the pace—it’s just that he almost never wants it like this, fast and rough and unrelenting. Harry likes slow, sappy sex, all the staring-deeply-into-your-eyes shit Niall pretends he doesn’t secretly love too. He likes squirmy sex, silly sex, sex where he’s giggling right up till the moment he’s sobbing with need, pressing up into Niall’s hand, begging to be allowed to come. 

Harry’s not even looking at him right now, not really; his gaze keeps dragging over Niall’s mouth and then fixing on some spot next to his ear. It’s such a far cry from last night it almost feels like he’s sleeping with a different person, like Harry’s just some bloke he picked up in a club for a quick, impersonal fuck. 

Niall hates it. He twists in Harry’s grasp, straining against it, but he can’t break the grip. His body remembers, with a kind of visceral shock, that Harry’s bigger than him, stronger than him – that when Niall holds him down, it’s because Harry lets him do it. 

He feels hot all over, his skin prickling, face flushed. 

“Come on,” Harry says abruptly, grinding down. He sounds angry, like it’s taking too long. “Come on, fucking _come_.”

Niall does, a moment later. It knocks the breath right out of him, vicious as a blow to the stomach. Harry makes a choked little sound, fingers tightening on his wrists as Niall thrusts up hard into him once, twice more; then he’s coming too, spilling hotly over his stomach, clenching down so tightly it’s almost painful. 

Harry turns his face into Niall’s shoulder, body trembling above him, exhaling a long, shuddery breath. A second later he’s pushing himself up and off, grimacing a little when Niall’s cock slips free. “Need a shower,” he mumbles, not looking at him. 

Niall doesn’t say anything, just rolls over onto his side and draws his knees up to his chest. He feels disgusting, skin tacky with sweat and come, his insides gone all quivery and strange. Behind him Harry gathers up his clothes. A door clicks softly shut. 

It takes him a few moments to realize that he hasn’t gone into the bathroom. He’s just gone. 

On the bedside table, his phone lights up with an incoming text. He reaches for it numbly, thumbing past the lockscreen. 

_you should call liam. guess the blood bank delivered to his room this morning by mistake_

Then, a few seconds later: 

_fuck you, niall._

*

Louis comes by that night after the show. He holds up his hands when Niall opens the door.

“I’m a neutral party,” he says. “I’m Switzerland. Just here to get his stuff.”

They pack up Harry’s things in silence. Or well, he packs up, while Louis lies on his stomach on the freshly made-up bed and scrolls through Twitter, occasionally snorting to himself or frowning. 

Niall’s operating on autopilot, pulling out all the clothes and books and spare headphones of Harry's that have migrated into his suitcases over the past few months. He’s always secretly liked the way Harry treats his luggage like an extension of his own. It feels like their version of living together, the way they might’ve if they were just a normal couple, the kind who met at uni and held hands on the street and shared a little flat somewhere in London. 

“So – that’s it, then?” Louis says when he’s finished, sitting up on the edge of the bed. 

Niall nods. “Yeah, just the two. The rest of his stuff’s on the bus.” 

He can’t tell if the expression on Louis’s face means he pities Niall or wants to smack him. Knowing Louis, it’s probably some combination of both. “Wasn’t talking about the bags, mate. No groveling? No messages you want me to pass on?”

Niall clenches his jaw. He shakes his head. 

“Really,” Louis says, looking doubtful. “Ooh, wait, are you planning a big gesture instead? Going to send him ten thousand roses? Fill a Jacuzzi with hot chocolate? C’mon, Nialler, tell me. I’m the best at keeping secrets.” 

“You’re the _worst_ at keeping secrets,” Niall says, because he might have just broken his own heart but he can’t let that one pass. “But no, Lou. It’s just – things are complicated right now, okay?”

“Well,” Louis says, slinging Harry’s bags over his shoulder. “He’s got some mad idea that you’re splitting up with him, so you might not want to leave it too long.” 

*

There’s a window of time where he could say something. Apologize, explain himself, send Harry ten thousand roses. Whatever. Everyone seems to feel the same way Louis does – that whatever’s going on between them is just a weird blip, their first proper fight as a couple. 

Even Harry seems to be waiting for Niall to say something. He won't talk to him or look at him, but after a day or two he starts lingering in places where they're bound to run into each other – chatting with the caterers for ages while Niall eats dinner, switching slots with Liam so he's due in hair and makeup right before him. _Talk to me_ , he’s saying, without saying a word. _Make it right._

Niall doesn’t. He just grits his teeth and keeps going, shows up for the concerts and wastes most of the day hiding out on the bus with Louis, or kicking around a football with the crew. He eats dinner with his head down, shoveling food into his mouth so he can retreat back to his dressing room.

Lou’s the only one who seems to realize what’s going on. She’s a bit less gentle with her brush these days. It hurts a little - not just figuratively - but Niall gets it. Harry’s always been her favorite. 

“Thanks, Lou,” he says dutifully one night, eyes watering in the aftermath of a particularly heavy-handed hairspray finish. She doesn’t say anything at first, just starts putting her brushes back into place. He’s halfway out the door when she calls after him. 

“Don’t mess him about, yeah?” she says. “If you’re finished with him, it’s not kind, letting him think there’s still a chance. He’s a good kid, Niall. He doesn’t deserve that.”

* 

Harry calls him for the first and last time two weeks later, at half past three in the morning. They’re back in London and he’s been out clubbing with Nick Grimshaw and the London crew, all those tall leggy rich people who’ve always made Niall feel sort of small and grubby by comparison. There’ve been pap photos of Harry all over Twitter all night, stumbling out of a club with his hand on Nick's elbow, both of them blinking and grinning against the bright flash of the cameras. Not that Niall’s been looking.

It's stupid of Harry. Not just because of the nasty shit Nick'll get on Twitter for weeks after, but because they've only got a few shows left and Niall knows he's been feeling poorly all week, sniffling into the mic during sound check and drinking buckets of his favorite vile-smelling herbal tea backstage. That’s why he cares—not because he’s jealous of Nick, with his big dopey grin and Harry’s hand on his arm. 

When his phone buzzes unexpectedly, Harry’s name flashing across the screen, Niall scrambles to pick it up so quickly he almost knocks over his beer. 

“Hiii,” Harry says when he picks up, then giggles. “What’re you dooooing?”

“Nothing,” Niall says. It’s true – he’s spent most of the night lying on the sofa wrapped in his duvet, flipping through late night telly channels and alternating between bagged blood and mostly flat beer. That’s the kind of sad sack vampire he is these days, apparently. “Harry, are you drunk?” 

Harry giggles again. “Shhh,” he says, and hiccups. “D-don’t tell Niall.”

“I’m Niall.” Niall grasps the phone tighter. “You called me, Harry, remember? Listen, is Grimmy with you? Can you put him on the phone?”

Harry ignores this. “C’n you come get me?” he asks, suddenly plaintive. “’M sick. Wanna come home so – so you can take care of me.”

Niall tries to ignore the way this makes his stomach twist. Christ, he wants that too, wants to drive to wherever Harry is and wrap him up tight in a blanket and bring him home to bed. Instead he says, “Haz, you’ve got somebody there with you, right? Where’s your security?”

“You don’t want to,” Harry says sadly. “Don’t want me.”

“That’s not – Harry, let’s not talk about this right now. I want you to find somebody you know and have them take you home, okay?”

“I can be d’ffrent.” Harry hiccups again, stumbling over his words. “Jus’ – tell me what you didn’t like, an’ I’ll be _d’ffrent_ , Niall, I swear – ”

There’s a burst of noise, drowning out whatever else he’s about to say, and then someone laughing and saying, “Uh oh, Hazza, what’re you doing on the floor?”

“Go ’way,” Harry says fiercely, but there’s a shuffling sound and then Nick Grimshaw’s says cheerily into the phone, “Hiya, whoever you are. Don’t know what he told you but that wasn’t really Harry Styles, ‘cos _he’s_ never had a drop to drink in his life. Pure as the driven snow, that one.”

“It’s fine, Nick, it’s just me,” he says. “Um, Niall.” 

“Ah.” Nick’s tone gets a little chillier. “All right, then. He’s had a few, but we’ll get him home. Sorry for waking you.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” he starts to say, but Nick’s already hung up. 

*

Harry doesn’t call again, though Niall stays up till dawn keeping an eye on Twitter and staring at his phone, not sure if he wants it to ring, if he’d pick up even if it did. He manages to resist phoning him back, at least. Doesn’t even send him a text asking if he’s got home all right.

 _It’s not kind,_ he hears Lou saying, and, _He’s a good kid._

Harry turns up five minutes before the meet-and-greet the next day looking like he’s spent most of his morning hugging a toilet bowl. When he sees Niall he scowls and looks away quickly, running a hand through his hair and fluffing it up with his fingers. 

“He seems so sad,” he hears one of the girls say to her friend, a bit wistfully. “It must be something to do with Louis.” 

*

The last two weeks of the tour pass in a blur, and then, just like that, it’s finished. 

Three days after their final show, the four of them spend a long morning in their lawyers’ offices, signing the last of the paperwork that officially terminates their contractual obligations to the label. If they come back – _when_ they come back, insists Liam, looking suspiciously misty-eyed – they’ll draw up all new contracts. 

It doesn’t seem especially likely. Liam’s back in the studio already, working on solo material; he and Louis are flying to LA the following week to meet with some artists they’re hoping to sign to their new label. Niall’s got no idea what Harry’s plans are, though he can guess – a couple months off, probably, then back to writing and recording. It’s weird not to know. Weirder to think that in all the time they were together, he and Harry barely talked about his solo career at all, the one thing nobody else can seem to stop talking about.

He realizes now that he’d never really asked. He’d spent so much time towards the end trying not to think about the future, or rather, about their non-future together. Now it’s over, all of it, properly over, and he’s got no idea what comes next.

“Congratulations, boys,” their lawyer says, standing up and shaking each of their hands in turn. “You're officially free agents. We'll have copies of the paperwork sent to your home addresses.”

She excuses herself, obviously thinking they’ll want a moment to themselves. 

“So what happens next?” Harry says, the first time he’s spoken in an hour. Niall looks up and realizes with a start that he’s staring straight at him, though the question seems to be directed to the room at large. 

Louis laughs. “What are you, a pap? We’re on _break_ , mate. We can do whatever the fuck we want!” He reaches over and twists Liam’s nipple viciously through his shirt. 

“Ow!” Liam says, but he’s laughing, flapping his hands to fend Louis off. The two of them have been giddy all morning, like they’re teenagers sitting through their first long contract meeting all over again. 

“No, I mean – for him,” Harry says, jerking his chin at Niall. “Like, I'm assuming he won't be coming back for the reunion tour or whatever. ’Cos that might be a bit weird, you know, if we've all gotten older and he still looks about sixteen.” 

Liam stops trying to pinch Louis back, the smile slipping from his face. It’s the first time anyone’s brought it up, what the whole not-aging thing means for them getting back together. “We’ll figure it out, Haz. It’s not like we have to decide right this second.”

“I'm just wondering,” Harry says, examining his fingernails. “I mean, I’m genuinely curious. Are we going to see him again, or should we be planning for, like, some kind of tragic accident? Getting our funeral attire ready?”

“What are you on about?” Louis wants to know. Niall shifts uncomfortably in his chair. It’s disconcerting, hearing Harry talk about him like he’s not there, like he’s one last obligation to be discharged before the meeting ends. 

“Well, I’m assuming he’s thought about it.” Harry glances up then, looking at Niall with an impassive expression on his face. “’Cos I have. He can’t just up and disappear with no explanation. We’d be answering questions about it for the rest of our lives. If he’s got an exit strategy ready, it’d be nice to give our teams some advance notice. Get it on the schedule, that kind of thing.”

“Niall wouldn’t do something like that,” Liam says, looking shocked. “We’re his best mates. And there’s, like – the fans, and stuff. He wouldn’t just leave.” 

“I dunno,” Harry says. He leans forward in his chair, fingertips drumming against the armrests. “Haven’t you ever thought it’s weird how he’s never brought anybody around? We’ve all got people from before, but – who’s he got? Nobody. Nobody comes round to see him. Doesn’t put down many roots, our Nialler.” 

“All right, mate,” Louis says uneasily. “That’s enough for now, don’t you think?”

“I’ll tell you,” Niall blurts out. Liam and Louis’s heads whip around to look at him. His throat is dry and he wants desperately to look away from Harry’s face, from the blank, disinterested force of his gaze, but he can’t. He’s gripped by the sudden and not wholly irrational fear that this might be the last time Harry looks at him. “When I’m leaving for good, I’ll tell you all.” 

“So, not yet,” Harry presses. Niall shakes his head.

“Not yet. Not for – a bit,” he says. “I can, um. I can clear it with your team first. When it’s time.”

Harry settles back into his chair, a flicker of something like satisfaction crossing his face. _Doesn’t want you to fuck up his publicity schedule,_ Niall thinks with a kind of aching bitterness, though he’s knows that’s not really fair. It’s a perfectly legitimate request. Just – just painful to hear, coming from Harry. 

Liam tries to salvage things by suggesting a celebratory brunch afterwards. Preston vetoes the idea, pointing out that they haven’t brought enough security for that kind of crowd control. While they’re bickering Niall excuses himself and heads for the toilets, hoping to avoid having to share a lift down with Harry. 

Afterwards he stares at himself in the mirror, gripping the sides of the sink with both hands. Christ, he looks a wreck. Pale and drawn, dark roots showing under his bottle-blond hair, wearing some ratty old t-shirt he’d thrown on in the dark that morning when he woke up and realized he’d almost overslept their meeting. He looks every inch the washed-up ex-popstar. 

When he ducks out again, he’s unpleasantly surprised to discover that Harry’s evidently also tried to dodge him. They wind up standing a few feet away from each other in the lift lobby, while Preston and one of the new security guys chat amiably about football scores. 

“You, uh, flying back to LA soon?” Niall asks finally, when he can’t bear it anymore. 

“Might do,” Harry says in a clipped tone, and then there’s another long, awkward stretch of time before the lift finally arrives. They’ve just stepped inside when someone outside calls, “Hold it, please!”

Harry reaches out and jams the button. The lift doors glide smoothly open again. 

“I thought that was you,” Jack says pleasantly, stepping inside.

*

Niall’s having some trouble keeping it together.

He keeps telling himself that Jack can’t hurt them right now, says it over and over again like one of the mantras Harry uses when he meditates till the words bleed together in his mind. They’ve got two burly security guards flanking them, and while Niall seriously doubts either of them has ever fought off a vampire he reckons they’re a deterrent, at least. He doesn’t think Jack would try anything in public, either—it’s too risky, too messy, especially if this is his place of work. That’s what his mum had said, right? A fancy job at a law firm in London. 

Even so, his brain’s going haywire, playing out a hundred nightmare scenarios in grisly detail. Jack could use a compulsion on their security guys. It’d be nothing at all for him to incapacitate Niall—he’s stronger, quicker, his reflexes honed from centuries of active hunting. Niall’s never been much of a predator. He’s got a bum knee and pipe-cleaner legs and no reflexes at all to speak of, and bagged blood always leaves him feeling slower and more sluggish than usual. It’d be so easy for Jack to take Harry right here, drain him dry right in front of Niall or drag him off somewhere to savor later. He wouldn’t even have to be hungry, wouldn’t even have to _want_ Harry really; fucking with Niall’s head would be pleasure enough. That’s what he is to Jack, what he’s always been – a game, a distraction, something to poke at and toy with till something more interesting arises. 

Watching him talk to Harry makes him feel sick. They’re talking about something innocuous – about what a small town London is, really, what a coincidence it is to run into each other here. They seem inordinately delighted to see each other again, considering they’d only spoken for about two minutes the first time they met. Niall’s almost positive Harry’s playing it up because he thinks it’ll piss him off. 

“You simply must have Niall bring you for dinner sometime,” Jack’s saying. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve perfected my _coq au vin_ recently, and I’d love to show it off. I’ll set up a couples party, shall I?” 

It’s a trick Niall’s seen him do many times before, reading his prey and then slipping into whatever persona he thinks they’ll feel most comfortable around. A kind of social camouflage, almost. Apparently he thinks Harry feels most at home around posh gay men with a taste for French cuisine.

“Oh,” Harry says, his face falling. “That’s so nice of you, but we’re not, um, together anymore.” He doesn’t look at Niall when he says it. 

Jack’s smile widens. “What a shame,” he says. “Well, you must take my card, at least. I’m sure you’ve got quite the legal team already, but one more number can’t hurt, can it?”

It can’t, Harry agrees politely. Niall resists the urge to do something dramatic like snatch the card away and burn it in front of them both. Instead he watches Harry take his wallet out of his oversized bag, tucking the little cream-colored rectangle away carefully inside. 

“Ah, that’s me,” Jack says, glancing up when the lift stops on the third floor. “Lovely to see you again, Harry, Niall. Perhaps we’ll see each other again soon.” 

Then he’s gone. 

“He seems nice,” Harry observes loudly to the air, like he’s daring Niall to contradict him. That would be beyond Niall’s capacities, at the moment. His knees feel so wobbly he can’t understand how they’re still holding him up. 

“Almost there,” Preston murmurs from behind him, soft enough that Harry can’t hear. Clearly he’s attributed the tense, unhappy set of Niall’s shoulders to the tight quarters, or possibly to the presence of his ex-boyfriend. “Doing great.” 

*

Harry leaves out the front entrance, walking serenely out through the glass doors and into the small crowd of paps and fans gathered on the sidewalk outside. Niall manages to make it through the entrance lobby and into the stairwell of the carpark before he breaks down. 

Preston, thankfully, knows him well enough to let him be. “Thought the claustrophobia was getting better, boss,” is all he says, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder before going off to call the car. Niall sits on the concrete steps and puts his head between his knees, trying to remember the deep breathing exercises he used to watch Harry do before big performances. For several long moments his thoughts spiral out of control, old memories bleeding into new nightmares, waves of dark panic breaking hard over his head. 

When the worst of it’s passed, he scrubs at his face with his hands and gets to his feet, so exhausted suddenly that even the short walk to the car seems to require an almost superhuman effort. His head’s throbbing steadily now, a dull, pulsing pain that starts at his temples and radiates outwards. As they pull out of the parking spot, he lets his eyes close, tipping his head back against the seat. 

“Hey,” Preston says suddenly. “S’your friend again, innit?” 

Niall opens his eyes and looks out the window. Jack’s standing in the doorway of the stairwell, watching their car. There’s no way he can see them through the tinted glass, but he still lifts his hand, smiling, as they drive past.

Something cold and heavy settles in Niall’s stomach. 

“He’s not my friend,” he says dully. 

Preston grunts his approval, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms across his chest. “Looks like a posh wanker anyway,” he says, then adds more charitably, “No offense to Haz.”

Niall’s hardly listening. He’s thinking, without wanting to, of that night in Mullingar, when he’d understood for the first time that for him, there would be no safe place. Of Harry’s hand in his hair, gentle but firm, and the way he’d held him after. His throat aches, tight with all the words he hasn’t said to Harry, all the grief he won’t let himself feel till later—a hundred years from now, two hundred, when it’s too late to take it back, or wish it different. When Harry’s safe, somewhere not even Jack can hurt him. 

It’s a different kind of comfort, that knowledge, but it holds him too. It wraps itself around him, cold and silent, closing over his head like water.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is turning out to be longer than I'd anticipated! thanks for bearing with me and for leaving such lovely comments, which makes working on a longer project like this feel so much more rewarding. there will definitely be at least one more 5-6k chapter, probably two, plus an epilogue - they are mostly drafted, but I think it'll probably be at least another week or two before they're ready to go up. special thanks as always to [harrymynewborngiraffe](http://www.harrymynewborngiraffe.tumblr.com) for reading everything and talking me through moments of panic and doubt. 
> 
> chapter-specific warnings: depictions of anxiety and distorted thinking related to untreated PTSD.
> 
> EDIT: as of 7/19/16 the next chapter is close to being finished! this WIP won't be abandoned, I promise. thanks to those of you who have commented and asked after its progress!

Harry doesn’t leave London. Niall doesn’t get better.

He’s honestly not sure if the two things are related - if Harry’s stubborn refusal to go back to L.A. like he’s meant to is making things worse, or if Niall was due for a downward spiral anyway and nothing on earth could’ve prevented it. 

Of course it stings to see Harry’s face all over Twitter or splashed across the tabloid covers at Tesco’s. It hurts to know that when Niall crawls into bed at night there won’t be anyone else there to hog all the pillows or complain loudly about how cold his feet are. But that’s the kind of pain he’s steeled himself for, the same way he’d begun bracing himself months ago, after Zayn left, for the loss of the band. Niall’s always been good at putting his head down and getting on with things, going through the motions to get through the day. If it threatens to overwhelm him sometimes—when a fan asks him shyly if he’s talked to the boys lately, or when he comes across Harry’s ratty Rolling Stones t-shirt balled up in his suitcase—most of the time he’s able to push it aside, at least long enough to smile for a photo and bury the shirt at the bottom of his wardrobe. 

What he hadn’t prepared for, couldn’t have, maybe, was what it would feel like to see Jack again and then go home alone, this time without Harry or the boys around him. There’s no one to soothe him now, to brush the sweaty hair out of his eyes and hold him when he wakes trembling from another nightmare. No one to keep up appearances for, or to pull him out of his own spiraling thoughts. 

He’s felt like this before. Years ago, when he left Jack for the first time, he used to stay in bed for weeks on end, drifting between nightmares and a kind of murky half-consciousness in a squalid boardinghouse somewhere in Manchester. Back then there wasn’t a blood bank to deliver supplies every two weeks to his door; instead he’d ignore his thirst until he couldn’t anymore, till the knife-sharp edge of it drove him out onto the streets to hunt again. 

It’s worse somehow, this time around. It’s as if everything he’s done to rebuild his life, to make his mind a place he could live in again, was for nothing. With each passing day it gets harder to carve out some measure of peace for himself against the steady thrum of fear. He’s slipping and he knows it, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it, no way to tell anyone just how fucked the inside of his head’s become. 

He’s stopped answering his mum’s calls, just texts her back instead of picking up, tells her he’s too busy to come home right now. The first time he’d rung her after the tour, to let her know things hadn’t worked out with Harry, he’d come close to telling her everything, about Jack and all of it. He’d had to come up with some excuse to abruptly end the call, his hands shaking as he put down the phone. If he picks up now he’s afraid she’ll be able to hear that something’s wrong. She’ll know, without him saying it, about the days when the fear is so intense it paralyzes him. About the nights he misses Harry so terribly he lies on the couch watching old interviews for hours, drinking in his crooked smile, his awful posture, his ridiculous honking laugh. 

He tries to keep it together. He goes to the gym and makes conversation with fans and looks up flights to Southeast Asia on his laptop, making vague plans for a future he’s having trouble imagining. In a moment of desperation he even tries yoga, signs up for a beginner’s session at his gym and makes a complete twat of himself trying to contort his body into the different poses. He’s not sure it does much for him—mostly it just makes him feel homesick for Harry, for his funny beautiful body and his stupid juice cleanses and the grave expression he used to wear whenever he lectured Niall about the benefits of healthy living. But the breathing stuff is okay. It loosens the tight clenched feeling in his chest a fraction, gives him something to concentrate on that isn’t sadness or fear. 

After the class the instructor says they can stay there like that for a while if they want. So he does, lying still and quiet in the cool darkness of the studio while everyone around him rolls up their mats. He can’t bring himself to care that people are probably looking at him or taking videos, or waiting to waylay him the second he steps outside. Instead he closes his eyes and sucks in air he doesn’t actually need and pretends that he's nothing and no one, that in all the long history of the world, there’s never been a boy called Niall Horan.

*

He calls Zayn once, after he wakes from a nightmare and can’t bear to be alone in his own head for a second longer. Zayn’s the only person Niall’s ever tried to explain this to, and even if that was a bit of a disaster he’s got this half-formed idea that he might understand. Niall’s desperate enough, frightened enough, to try. 

Part of him isn’t sure he’ll even pick up. Niall’s got a new number since March, and even though it’s not all that late in LA, he knows Zayn’s got a life of his own there, one that probably doesn’t include waiting around for his ex-bandmates to call. 

The phone rings for a long time. He’s about to end the call when there’s a click, and Zayn’s voice in his ear, muzzy and familiar, saying, “Hello?” 

Niall’s throat’s gone tight again, picturing it: Zayn half a world away in his big new house in California—in bed, almost asleep, fumbling for his phone amidst the rumpled sheets. Gigi stretched out beside him, maybe, or somewhere out in the city, making her way home to him through the dark. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, ringing him. He’s got no idea what he’d even say. 

Zayn makes a soft noise into the receiver. “Lou?” he says, tentative. 

“Wrong number,” Niall chokes out, and hangs up. 

*

A week later he wakes up to the sound of someone leaning against the buzzer on his front door. He squints at the blinking alarm clock—just before ten, which means he's only managed to sleep about four consecutive hours—and gets up without bothering to take his phone off the charger. He's been laying low on social media lately, avoiding texts and calls. It feels like it'd take more energy than he’s got right now, pretending like he’s okay in company. 

When he opens the door Louis is standing on the stoop with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking hungover and slightly pissed off, greasy hair shoved up under a beanie. “’Lo, Nialler,” he says gruffly.

“Uh,” Niall says. “Hey, Lou. What's up?”

The question seems to throw Louis for a moment. “Since when do I need a reason to visit a mate?" he says finally, edging past Niall into the house. “Was in the neighborhood and thought we could use a lads' day, yeah? You and me. What d’you think?”

He doesn't wait for a reply, just makes a beeline for the kitchen. Niall spends a moment in the entry hall glancing longingly up the stairs, wondering if he can just leave Louis to it and go back to bed. His curiosity gets the better of him, though, and he trails after him into the kitchen, scrubbing at sleep-gritty eyes. 

“Could you've, like – texted first, maybe?” he asks hoarsely. 

Louis is already rummaging around in his fridge, even though Niall's pretty sure everything in there—with the exception of the blood bank’s weekly delivery—is expired. He's been eating a lot of takeaway recently. Harry would be appalled.

“Like you would’ve answered,” Louis snorts, reemerging with a bag of leftover pizza Niall has no memory of ordering. “Anyway, you’ve got to live in the moment, old man. Be spontaneous and all that shite. YOLO, right? Or in your case, forever.” 

Niall resists the impulse to snatch the bag away from him and check it for mold first, because he’s not that old—or well, he’s not turned into his mum yet, at least. Louis shoves half a slice of pizza into his mouth without preliminaries. He chews with his mouth open, swallows, and says, “Not going to offer me a cuppa, then? Terrible manners, Nialler.” 

*

Something’s clearly wrong, but Niall doesn’t push it. He’s known Louis long enough to know he’s not the type to just come out with what's bothering him. He’ll go off on Twitter if someone pisses him off publicly, but if it’s something else—a deep-down hurt, the way he got when things went sour with El, or right after Zayn left—it’s best to just wait, let him circle warily around the subject till he’s ready to talk. It just takes time, something Niall’s got plenty of these days. 

Once Louis’ inhaled his first cup of tea and made Niall fix him another, they migrate to the living room. Louis claims the biggest couch immediately, kicking off his shoes as he sprawls out on it and reaches for the nearest controller.

“Loser buys lunch,” he says, in a tone that brooks no dissent. 

They spend the next two hours playing FIFA. Niall still feels like shit, sleep-deprived and sort of – fragile, but it’s actually really nice, being around somebody else after weeks of being on his own. Playing video games like this feels like being back on tour: Louis nursing a hangover after a long night out, talking shit on everything from Niall’s hair to his Irish ancestry to his pipe-cleaner legs. All that's missing is Liam sat on the ground between them, brow furrowed in almost agonized concentration, tongue pushing out between his teeth.

Harry used to play with them sometimes, though never for long. After a game or two he usually gave up in favor of trying to distract Niall—sitting on the sofa and staring unblinkingly at him with those big cow eyes of his till Niall caved and gave him a kiss ( _Such a creep, Styles, you know that, right?_ ). Or he’d lie down on the bed next to him and inch his head slowly into Niall's lap, breathing hot against his stomach till Niall couldn't focus on the game anymore, couldn’t think about anything other than getting Harry back to their room and on his knees for him, mouth warm and wet around his cock. 

He fumbles the next save, vision gone suddenly fuzzy. 

“And that’s how it’s _done_!” Louis pumps a fist in the air, then flings the controller onto the table. “That’ll cost you a curry, Horan.” 

Niall rolls his eyes, trying to conceal the slight trembling in his hands. "All right, all right, I'll call something in. Hang on, though, my phone's upstairs."

Louis coughs, and then says. "Actually—just remembered, mate. I owe you one, don't I? From that last game in Sheffield?"

Niall blinks at him. “What?”

“And I ate all your pizza.” He fishes out his phone, sliding open the lockscreen. “So. It’s on me. What’ll it be, Nialler?” 

*

Louis passes out on the sofa almost immediately after lunch, mouth half open, chest rising and falling with each gentle snore. Niall shuts his eyes for a while too; they feel like they’re burning, so dry and scratchy it’s like running sandpaper over his eyeballs every time he blinks. He doesn’t sleep exactly, just sort of—drifts, confused images moving behind his eyelids, the low hum of the telly weaving its way into his thoughts. When he startles awake some time later, the light’s changed, late afternoon sun spilling through the blinds. 

He doesn’t mean to read Louis’ texts. His phone’s still upstairs and he just wants to check the time. But the lockscreen’s set to show the last three texts Louis’ received, all of them from Liam, and one of them’s got Niall’s name in it. 

_u with Niall mate ?? answer meeee_  
_hows he handling it ._  
_still cant get ahol d of H of course hes disappeared AT A TIME LIKE THIS !!!!_

Niall doesn’t panic. He just calmly, very calmly, puts Louis’ phone down on the coffee table and goes upstairs, opens up his laptop and Googles Harry’s name. 

*

Harry’s done the occasional publicity stunt: once with Taylor, when they were trying to break into the U.S. market, and a few times to take the heat off someone else—Louis, usually, or sometimes Nick. Niall knows how those go, and he’s never been jealous, always understood that Harry’s fame is a commodity that’s got nothing to do with the actual Harry. That kind of thing’s scripted and staged, anyway, with strict rules for both parties and minimal touching involved. It’s all about suggestion, about getting people to speculate about what’s going on behind closed doors.

The pictures the Sun’s got hold of now—an exclusive, courtesy of a so-called “friend”—aren’t exactly racy. But they’re intimate, certainly, in a way that makes it clear neither Harry nor the girl he’s with realized they were being taken. In the first few photos she’s straddling Harry’s lap, her hands on his shoulders, blond hair spilling over her face and shoulders. He’s leaning back against the wall, his legs spread wide, head tilted up towards her. The lighting’s bad, taken on a shitty cell phone camera at a darkened party, but the expression on his face is serious, focused: intent in a way Niall’s rarely seen him. There’s other photos too, mostly of them kissing. Harry’s big hands are splayed across her lower back, drawing her in. 

It’s a relief, at least, that he doesn’t recognize her. The article says she’s an American model, a friend of Cara Deleveigne's, and they’d met after a fashion show a couple weeks back. He flicks through the gallery blankly, looks at some photos of her in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition and a few of Harry helping her into a car, then closes out of the browser. 

He feels tired, mostly, and a little numb. It’s not like he’d expected Harry to take a vow of chastity after they broke up or anything. Harry loves sex, and he's spent the last four years having it with only one person, so—it’s not surprising, really, that he’d want to try it with someone else. Maybe the real surprise is that it’s taken him two months to do it. 

That’s it; that’s all there is to feel. It’s over, and he ended it, and now Harry’s moving on. It’s what he’d wanted for him, after all—a normal life, or at least as close to normal as someone with Harry’s fame will ever be able to have. If Niall were a better and more generous person, he might even be happy for him.

He sits there for a long time, perched on the edge of his too-big bed, looking at a scuffmark on the far wall the movers had left years ago. He’s always meant to have it painted over, thinks about it every time he’s home from tour, but somehow he’s never got around to it. He’ll have to have somebody in to fix it, probably, if he’s going to sell the house. 

“Mate,” Louis says. He’s standing in the doorway, looking soft and sleep-rumpled. There’s a mark on his face from where he’d fallen asleep on the throw pillow. 

Niall clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Was your plan to just distract me forever, then?” 

“Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet,” Louis admits. “Honestly, when I came by this morning I thought you would’ve seen them already. So I was just sort of – improvising.” 

He’s hovering a little closer to the edge of the bed now, looking uncomfortable. At least that’s familiar, the way Louis gets when he’s in the presence of someone who might be having feelings—like he wants to help, sort of, but he’s also worried they might be contagious. He wouldn't go near Liam for a week after Zayn left, when Liam kept saying things like _That was his favorite mug_ or _He always loved that song_ in a quavery voice, like Zayn had died instead of fucked off back to England and left them all with an eight-month world tour ahead of them. 

“Thought you were Switzerland,” Niall says. “Neutral party and all that.” 

“I am,” Louis says. “You don’t hear me going on about what colossal fucking twats the two of you are being, do you?” 

Niall looks down at his phone. “Well, thanks for that, I guess.”

“You’re both being colossal fucking twats, by the way,” Louis says pointedly. “Off the record, of course.”

Niall can’t help it; he laughs. Louis sits down on the bed next to him, evidently pleased with this result, though he makes an effort to school his expression into something somber enough for the occasion. “Now I think I’m meant to ask you how you’re feeling. And tell you that it’s all going to be fine and that you’re a brave little toaster and all that.”

“You?” Niall asks skeptically. “Really?”

“Well, your other option was Liam,” Louis says. “And to be honest I don’t think he’s worked out yet what the difference between a vampire and a bisexual is, so. He’s a little confused about all of this.”

“I _knew_ it,” Niall mutters, and thinks briefly about texting Harry, before remembering he’s not allowed to do that anymore. Instead he runs a hand through his hair and tugs hard, like it’ll help ground him. 

“Niall.”

“I'm fine, Lou,” he says. “Really.”

"You can, like – you can be not fine, you know.” When Niall glances at him, Louis gives a little half-shrug, and adds, almost defensively, "If you want, I mean. Whatever.” 

“Okay,” Niall says again. He knows that’s not actually true, no matter what Louis says. If he lets himself be not fine about this, it’s all going to come to pieces, the few bits of his life he’s managed to keep together. “Or we could just get pissed instead.” 

"Fuck, yes," Louis says instantly, looking relieved. "That. Let's do that."

*

Niall leans his head against Louis' shoulder. He's got no idea what time it is, or how long they've been at it; the room's not spinning yet, not quite, but it's definitely tilting a bit at the edges. Louis' talking about the label—all the industry parties he and Liam have been going to lately, trying to generate some buzz, something about the artists they're hoping to sign—but he's had enough to drink that he's having a hard time following the thread of the conversation. 

He's spent most of the day putting on a good face for Louis and most of the evening trying to avoid thoughts of Harry. Now it's slipping, his control. 

He keeps imagining that he's going to go upstairs later and Harry's going to be sprawled out naked in bed with his eyemask on, the kind with the special cooling gel in it to keep his eyes from getting puffy, just like always. He keeps thinking about how if Harry were asleep upstairs he'd crawl into bed with him and wake him up with a blowjob, like always, about how Harry would stir awake and whisper, "Niall?" from behind his eyemask like he's hazarding a guess, really taking a stab at it. As if there might be somebody else in the bed they share, sucking him off. 

Now there is, Niall supposes. Or in a bed, somewhere. He forgets Louis’ there for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden wave of hurt. 

Louis stops talking. He nudges him with his shoulder. "Hey, now. Have to warn a bloke, if there's going to be crying." 

"Sorry," Niall says, blinking. He's not going to cry, for god's sake. He's two centuries old, not a teenager who just got his heart broken for the first time. 

Louis works his arm free so he can sling it around Niall's shoulder. He pulls him in tight, tipping him off balance, and drops a kiss to the top of his head.

"Love you," he mutters into Niall's hair, like if he says it quickly and quietly enough neither of them will have to acknowledge it happened. 

“Whoa, mate,” Niall says. He feels like shit, but he still tilts his head back and, with some effort, grins up at Louis. “S’kinda gay, isn't it?”

"Oh, fuck off." Louis pinches his arm, hard enough to make Niall yelp. "'M trying to be supportive, you dick."

“Better leave that touchy feely stuff to Haz,” Niall says without thinking, and they both fall silent. Louis' tracing patterns on his bare arm, fingertips nudging up under his sleeve, and it's making him feel weird, flushed and sort of feverish, the first time anyone's touched him in months. He takes a long swig of his beer, finishing it off, and tosses the empty can in the general direction of the coffee table. 

“I can't stay here,” he says. “In London, I mean. Gonna lose me head if I do. Feels like maybe I’ve gone a bit mad already, honestly.”

Louis thinks about this, chewing on his lip. 

“Okay,” he decides. "If you need, like – an extended vacation, or whatever, that's fine. But you're not going ghost on us, all right? I don't care what kind of bullshit vampire code you have. We're not letting go of you that easy."

“Going to have to let me go someday.” Niall closes his eyes. He's allowed to be a little maudlin, after he's had a few, even though he's suddenly not sure he's drunk enough for this conversation. “Can't, like – I can't stick around forever. You know that.”

“Niall,” Louis says patiently. “You do realize it's not the eighteen hundreds anymore, right? So maybe you'll have to stop appearing on the cover of _Teen Vogue_ , whatever. But you can still have a mobile, Christ. You could pick up the phone and call us anytime, if you wanted to.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then he says abruptly, "I'm not Harry, okay? I'm not going to let you walk out of our lives and pretend like none of this ever happened. And if you try to disappear on me I'm going to track you down, ’cos I'm fucking loaded, all right, and when I find you I'm going to tie you up in my attic and make you listen to ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ on repeat till you beg for mercy."

“Hey,” Niall says. “I love that song.”

“It might take years,” Louis says grimly, “but I'm committed.”

Niall turns his face into Louis' chest. He’s thinking about that phone call, the sound of Zayn breathing into the receiver. The cautious note in his voice.

“It goes the other way too," he says softly, and he's not trying to score a point or anything, just. “Phones go both ways, you know.”

Louis’ breath hitches slightly. Then he says, easy as anything, “So you have learned to operate these newfangled machines, Horan. Might make a twenty-first-century lad of you yet.”

He unfolds his legs, crumpling his beer can in his hand. "Anyway, enough sappy shite. Aren't we meant to be getting pissed tonight? You know what they say, haven’t made a proper night of it till you’ve taken a leak in front of the paps.” 

“That was one time,” Niall protests, but he lets Louis drag him up anyway. 

*

In some ways, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened. If some part of him’s been hanging on, waiting to see if Harry’s going to be all right without him, surely this is the sign he’s been waiting for. He books a flight to Bali the next morning, painfully hungover in his kitchen with Louis hanging over his shoulder— _So I can know where to send the PI first_ , he says—leaving in two weeks. It should give him enough time to tie up some loose ends here with the house, get his stuff in storage and put the property on the market. 

“Won’t you burn?” Louis wants to know, looking at a photo of a beach somewhere in Thailand. "With your delicate undead constitution, or whatever?" 

“There’s this sunblock you can get,” Niall says absently, clicking through the gallery of photos. “For like – people with skin conditions, that kind of thing.” 

Harry'd gotten him some for his birthday last year, so he could come visit him in California. They'd had sex on the beach, behind the sand dunes, despite Niall's protests that it wouldn't be sexy and Harry would definitely get sand in his arse. He'd been right about the second part but, as it happened, wrong about the first. The night air had been cool and Harry had been so hot around him, his legs hooked around Niall's waist. His skin tasted of salt and suncream, and when Niall licked over his pulse point, let his fangs scrape teasingly over the delicate skin there, he'd begged for it so beautifully Niall almost turned him right there. 

Louis leaves mid-morning to meet Lottie, with the promise that he and Liam are going to throw Niall the best going party he’s ever had. 

Niall’s still half-grinning to himself as he clears up the breakfast things from the kitchen. He’s not, like – happy, exactly, but the flight confirmation email sitting in his inbox makes him feel like a weight’s been lifted off his chest, and the contrast between how he’s been feeling and how he feels right now is so great he feels almost giddy with it. 

He’s even sort of getting into the idea of just getting lost somewhere for a while, rambling around on a beach somewhere in the middle of nowhere. It almost feels like a real vacation, not just an escape—a chance to see the world properly this time, without the mad rush of their tour schedule. And maybe the rest of it will be better too, somewhere else: the bad dreams, the fear. Missing Harry. Maybe the only way forward is out. 

*

“Shots!” Louis yells over the pounding music, clambering up onto a chair and thrusting a handle of vodka into the air. He’s sloshed a good portion of it down his sleeve already, but he doesn’t seem bothered. “Shots for everyone! Shots for Niall fuckin’ Horan!” 

There’s a general cheer from the crowd milling about in the kitchen, most of whom Niall’s met once or twice, tops—he’s pretty sure Louis has invited everyone he knows in London, and quite a few others besides. A girl with a pink hair and a nose ring passes him a shot, and he raises it along with the rest of them, knocking it back before he can think better of it. The leaving party’s been in full swing for a couple hours now, and he’s worked up a pretty nice buzz. It feels good, the alcohol making him feel warm and sort of hazy, more relaxed than he’s felt in weeks. The fact that he’s leaving London behind him in less than two days doesn’t hurt, either. 

Up on the chair Louis tilts precariously to one side, nearly tipping over before he’s caught round the middle by a frazzled-looking Liam and delivered safely to the ground again. When he catches sight of Niall leaning against the kitchen counter, he elbows his way through the crowd towards him, Liam in tow. 

“Shots for everyone,” he says, frowning at Niall’s empty shot glass. 

“How about a nice glass of water instead?” Liam says hopefully. Louis shoves at his shoulder, misses, and nearly overbalances. This time Niall’s the one to catch him, propping him up against the counter.

“Sick party, mate. Thanks for organizing it.”

“Only th’ best for our Nialler,” Louis says, and hiccups, listing heavily against Liam’s side. 

Liam pats his head affectionately. “Can’t believe you’re really going. Tommo said you’ve already sold the house?”

“Yeah,” Niall says. “S’weird, but – it feels right, you know? Time for a change.” 

The property had been snapped up just two days after his agent put it on the market, by the CEO of a Japanese manufacturing company moving to London with his family. It hadn’t been as hard as he’d expected, signing the papers. But it felt strange coming home to it after, wandering through rooms filled with half-packed boxes, realizing that even if he returns to London someday, he’ll never come back here again. 

It's just a house. It's never been home to Niall, not really, not with the lives they've led these past five years. But it's been a place of rest, and sometimes even of refuge. It's been long nights in the big bed upstairs and lazy weekends spent taking Harry apart, learning every inch of him, every caught breath—slowly, so slowly, like they had all the time in the world. Taking him apart and putting him back together, lost in a dream of forever. 

“You know you’re always welcome to stay here, when you come back,” Liam’s saying earnestly now. “Soph loves having you around. Says you’re the only one of my friends who’s got any manners.”

“Oi,” says Louis, poking Liam in the chest. “I’ll have you know, I’m – ”

But whatever he’s about to say is lost in a sudden influx of noise from the living room. The girl with the tongue ring reemerges from the crowd, grabbing her friend’s arm. “He’s here!” she says, loud enough to hear above the music. “Harry Styles! It’s really him, Liv, I just saw him on my way back from the toilets.”

Niall’s stomach lurches. He looks back at Louis and Liam, both of whom are suddenly avoiding his eyes. “You invited him?” 

“Not me,” Louis says immediately, abandoning all pretense of ignorance. “Not my idea. S’all Payno’s fault.” 

“I didn’t think he’d actually turn up,” Liam says anxiously. “I just – I ran into him at the studio yesterday, and he asked what I was doing this weekend, and – ”

“And you invited him to his ex-boyfriend’s going away party,” Niall says. The knowledge that Harry’s here, just a few hundred meters away, is sitting oddly with him. He feels tense and jumpy again, but in the back of his mind there’s a faint, pathetic stirring of something like hope, like maybe Harry’s presence means they’ll get the chance to say goodbye properly. 

He quashes that feeling as quickly and brutally as he can, concealing it with irritation. “Jesus, Liam. Did you ask him to bring his new girlfriend too?”

“I just thought he should know!” Liam bursts out, loudly enough to draw attention from the people around them. He flushes, lowering his voice. “About – about you leaving, and selling the house and all. I’m sorry, Niall, I know it’s none of my business. I just thought, like. If it were me I wouldn’t want to find out from somebody on Twitter, that’s all. If you want, I’ll ask him to leave.” 

He looks miserable. Niall opens his mouth to speak, but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm. “Lads,” Louis says softly, sounding rather more sober than he had five minutes ago. “There’s phones around, yeah? Maybe save it for later.” 

Niall takes a deep breath, steadying himself. 

“You’re right,” he says. “Both of you. Sorry, Liam, I just – I wasn’t expecting to see him tonight, that’s all. It’s not a big deal. He can stay.” 

*

As it turns out, he doesn’t see Harry at all. 

Liam abandons them both shortly afterwards under the pretense of checking on the playlist, though Niall’s got a feeling he and Louis are splitting up the work of managing the two of them. Louis seems very intent on distracting him again, this time by introducing him to everyone who walks by and pouring everyone shots until Niall’s head is swimming and he’s long since left behind buzzed for drunk. 

He spends an hour hiding out in the kitchen before it becomes obvious, rather embarrassingly so, that Harry’s not going to come looking for him. The more he drinks the more ridiculous that brief flicker of hope seems. Of course Harry hasn’t come to see him off, or to tell him they can still be friends even if he happens to fuck beautiful American models now. He’s probably just come at Liam’s request, out of some misplaced sense of obligation—or, and this seems more likely, because it’d look bad in the papers if it got out he wasn’t there. 

“Need the toilet,” Niall mutters to Louis, who’s holding court surrounded by a group of almost identical-looking blonde girls. He keeps his head down as he walks out of the kitchen and down the hall, though it turns out not to be necessary. Liam’s standing in the living room near the speakers with Sophia, an arm slung around her waist, chatting happily with one of their sound engineers. Harry’s nowhere to be seen. 

There's a queue for the downstairs toilet, so Niall exercises his guest of honor privileges and makes his way up the back stairs to use one of the ensuites. It's cool and dark up here, away from the noise of the party. He's drunk enough that he almost knocks over the soap dish washing his hands, and has to steady himself on the edge of the bathroom counter for a moment after. It's fine. It's his own goodbye party, isn't it, and he’s meant to be having fun. It's got nothing to do with the fact that Harry was here, or that he’d apparently left without saying a word to Niall, not even goodbye. 

Niall dries his hands on the towel and runs his fingers quickly through his hair, ruffling it up a little. He's just stepped out of the bathroom and switched off the light behind him when he realizes there's someone standing in the darkened bedroom with him, only a few steps away. His whole body goes rigid with fear. 

"It’s me," Harry says quickly, stepping forward. "It’s only me.”

"Jesus, Harry," Niall says, sagging back against the doorframe. "You scared the shit out of me. I thought you’d gone.”

“I had to talk to you,” Harry says, and there’s something strained in his voice, an urgency Niall doesn’t understand. “Alone. I need – please, Niall, can we talk?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is basically just sex and feelings, and moments of DRAMA and ANGST. sorry it took so long, but I hope the fact that it is almost 9k (two chapters in length, really!) will make up for it.
> 
> chapter-specific warnings for mentions of blood, vague references to PTSD and distorted thinking, and angsttttt, with long sex interludes. this is almost wholly unedited, so all typos (and possible continuity errors) are mine and will be fixed as I discover them.
> 
> there will be ONE MORE CHAPTER, and I swear to god, it will be posted soon.

_"It’s me," Harry says quickly, stepping forward. "It’s only me.”_

_"Jesus, Harry," Niall says, sagging back against the doorframe. "You scared the shit out of me. I thought you’d gone.”_

_“I had to talk to you,” Harry says, and there’s something strained in his voice, an urgency Niall doesn’t understand. “Alone. I need – please, Niall, can we talk?”_

*

Fear coils in Niall’s stomach, twisting low in his gut. He steps towards Harry instinctively. 

“What’s wrong?” he says sharply, though some part of him already suspects. Those suspicions only grow when he takes a step into the room and sees Harry flinch back. 

Jack. It must be, for Harry to approach him like this, to demand to speak to him alone. He looks young and frightened—terrified, even, his jaw clenched, his face white. He won’t quite meet Niall’s eyes. Niall’s thoughts race ahead of him, gruesome scenarios playing out in his mind. Harry’s been followed, stalked like prey. Christ, could he have been attacked? 

But no—that’s not Jack’s style. Niall doesn’t think he’d show his hand that early. More likely he’s been whispering in Harry’s ear, filling his head with lies. 

_Or truths_ , says a little voice in the back of his head. Suddenly Niall feels sick. 

“Tell me what he told you,” he says abruptly. “Harry. Tell me.” 

Harry glances up at him for an instant, startled. But he recovers quickly, schools his expression blank the way he does in interviews sometimes, when the person asking the questions won’t leave well enough alone. “He told me the truth, that’s all,” he says, a touch of defiance in his voice. “’Cos you were too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

“You can’t trust him,” Niall says. “Whatever he said, Harry, just – promise me you won’t go near him again.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Harry snaps. “And you don’t just get to keep him, ‘specially not if you’re leaving. He’s my friend too, Niall, he’s not just yours.”

“Not my friend,” Niall says, a reflex. “And he isn’t yours either, Harry, no matter what he’s told you. He’s not a good person.” 

Harry’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “Don’t talk about him like that,” he hisses. “You can say whatever you like about me, I don’t care, but Liam _loves_ you and he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I—what?” Niall’s bewildered. “What does Liam have to do with anything?” 

“Liam was just trying to be a good friend,” Harry says hotly. “And I’m glad I ran into him yesterday, ‘cos if I hadn’t you would’ve just left and I wouldn’t have found out until it was too late.”

“Wait,” Niall says. “What are you talking about?” 

“You sold the house,” Harry shoots back. “Liam told me. He said you’ve sold the house and put your stuff into storage and he doesn’t think you’re coming back, not ever.”

The sense of relief is so intense his knees almost buckle. Harry’s angry—not hurt, not threatened. Niall sees it now: the fury he’d read as fear, the clenched fists as a defensive posture.

“Christ, Harry,” he breathes. “I thought something was really wrong.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he wishes he could take them back. Harry’s face twists into a grimace of something like pain. His back slumps, shoulders drawn in like he’s trying to make himself smaller. 

“No, wait. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“S’fine.” Harry won’t look at him, just stares fixedly at a patch of carpet by his feet. “I mean, I get it. Took me long enough, but. I know I was just, like—a bit of fun for you, or whatever. Something to pass the time. I know I didn’t _matter_.” He takes a deep breath. “But it was real for me, okay? All of it, all the stupid shit I said. Jesus, Niall. I loved you so fucking much, and you couldn’t even be arsed to say goodbye.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Niall says vehemently, except that he doesn’t know how to go on from there. There’s no way to tell Harry what it’s really like without telling him the truth: that he’s in love with him still, that he’s never stopped feeling it. That what he’s doing now is for Harry’s sake, even if it feels like it’s tearing them both apart. 

“It’s complicated,” he finishes weakly. “I can’t explain it better than that.” 

“I’ll understand when I’m older, right?” The bitter edge has gone out of Harry’s voice; he just sounds tired now, and sad. He looks it too: dark circles under his eyes, his face pale and drawn, like he’s been sleeping as badly as Niall. “Just be careful with the next one, yeah? Maybe don’t take them to meet your mum. In case it gives them the wrong idea.”

“The next one?”

“Come on, Niall,“ Harry says. “I know I’m not the first. I don’t care, I just—I wish you’d said, that’s all. ‘Cos then maybe I wouldn’t’ve been such an idiot about it.” 

He’s blinking very quickly now, his eyes bright with unshed tears. Niall moves towards him instinctively, the need to comfort Harry overriding thought. 

“I just—I keep wondering, were you laughing at me?” Harry’s voice comes out all choked, the words a half-sob. “That whole time, you—god, you must’ve thought I was so stupid, you must’ve been having a right laugh. And I didn’t even know, Niall. I thought we were _happy_.”

Harry’s crying now, shoulders shaking with it, but when Niall pulls him in close he goes easily, burying his face in Niall’s shoulder as he sobs. Despite the difference in their heights Harry feels slight in Niall’s arms, fragile in a way Niall’s never known him to be. 

Niall steers him to the edge of the bed and sits him down, holding him through it. He rubs Harry’s back and makes soft, soothing noises into his hair, breathing in the scent of him as deeply as he can. Harry goes quiet in slow degrees, till at last he’s mostly sniffling instead of crying, breath catching only a little in his throat. He shifts on the bed, fisting the front of Niall’s shirt in one hand: not insistent, just—there. Present. 

“I miss you,” he says, so quiet it’s barely more than a whisper.

“Miss you too,” Niall whispers. He feels a pang of loss is so intense he can’t help but draw Harry closer, as if the familiar heat of Harry’s body might seep through his skin, make him warm and human and alive again. He misses the easy way their bodies used to fit, spooned up in the dark of a hotel room somewhere a million years ago, Harry telling him about the migration patterns of butterflies until they both fell asleep. 

It used to feel so effortless, the two of them together. Used to be the easiest thing in Niall’s life. 

“It was real for me too,” he says. “All of it, Harry. It was real.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment. Then he nuzzles his face into the crook of Niall’s shoulder, nosing into his hair like a puppy. His mouth brushes lightly, hesitantly, over the place where Niall’s collar has pulled away from his neck, lips against bare skin. 

Niall lets his mind go blank. He just keeps rubbing slow circles over Harry’s back, lets his eyes flutter shut as Harry trails soft little half-kisses up the side of his throat, along the line of his jaw. The first press of Harry’s lips against his feels inevitable, and Niall sighs into the kiss without meaning to, mouth parting to let Harry’s tongue slip inside.

They kiss like that for a long time. The room is quiet around them, though Niall can feel the low thump of the bass downstairs reverberating in his chest like a heartbeat. When his fingers curl into the small of Harry’s back, Harry makes a small urgent noise. He shifts closer, his knee nudging against Niall’s, a hand sliding possessively over his thigh. 

“Harry,” Niall says, drawing back a little. “Can’t do this here.”

 _Can't do this, period_ is what he means to say. What he should say. Harry's only response is to stick his tongue into Niall's ear. Niall shivers all over, accidentally pulls him closer instead of pushing him away. 

Harry hesitates for a moment. Then he says, “I’ve got a car round back.”

Niall swallows hard. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, his voice so rough it sends another shiver down Niall’s spine. “We could – we could go to yours, if you wanted.” 

He’s trembling, Niall realizes suddenly. Not visibly so, just a slight tremor in his hands, in the set line of his jaw. As if he’s holding himself back, trying to suppress some strange intensity of feeling. It reminds Niall of that very first time, in the tiny bungalow kitchen, when Harry had asked him for something Niall couldn’t, wouldn’t give him. Not then, anyway. 

He feels the same reluctance now when he says heavily, “We can’t, Harry. It’s not a good idea.” 

But Harry’s not sixteen anymore, not unsure of himself and easily deterred. He’s stronger now too, strong enough to catch Niall’s wrists and keep him from pulling away. Against the chill of Niall’s skin Harry’s feels burning hot. His grip is so tight it’s just shy of painful. 

“I won’t ask for anything else,” he says. “I swear, Niall.” 

Niall’s resolve is already weakening. In less than forty-eight hours he’s getting on a plane and he’s never coming back. Not to London, anyway. Not to Harry. Surely this can’t hurt any more than it already does. 

Harry must feel the shift. He leans closer, nose brushing against Niall’s ear, his head tilted slightly to expose his throat. “I’ll be good,” he murmurs. “Be so good for you, promise.” 

It’s not subtle, as far as seduction techniques go, but it’s effective. Up close like this the scent of Harry’s blood is so strong Niall feels the sharp, unexpected press of his own fangs against his gums. 

“Ten minutes,” he says abruptly. “Go wait for me in the car. I’ll be down in ten minutes.” 

Harry straightens up immediately. “I’ll wait,” he says, and leans in to kiss him again. Niall turns his face away at the last moment. 

“This is it, Harry,” he says, his throat tight. He can’t let either of them go into this thinking it’s something it isn’t. “This is the last time.”

Something flickers across Harry’s face. Then he lifts one of Niall’s hands to his mouth and kisses the inside of his wrist, lips brushing over the place where a pulse should beat. There’s something almost painfully intimate about the gesture, but when Harry meets Niall’s gaze again his eyes are a clear, unclouded green. 

“I know,” he says, and then, again: “I’ll wait.” 

*

It’s been closer to twenty minutes by the time Niall finishes making the rounds downstairs. Harry must’ve slipped out the back already, though Niall doesn’t see him go. He’s too busy hugging all the crew members and a fair number of strangers too, getting his hair ruffled by nearly everyone who’s close enough to reach him. Louis, who is shirtless and smells very strongly of weed, insists on doing one last shot, waving imperiously for Liam to bring them a handle from the kitchen. It’s easier to agree than to put up a fight—and besides, Niall feels like he could use it anyway, something to muffle the dull throb of anxiety that’s begun to creep back into his mind. All he can think about is the minutes ticking by in his head, the car out back and Harry inside it, waiting for him, wanting him. 

The shot burns going down, but Niall barely notices. He passes the glass off to someone else and gently tugs his arm free of Louis’ grasp, promising for the thousandth time that he’ll text when he’s landed in Thailand. 

Liam follows him out into the back hallway. He fusses over him a little, making sure he’s got his jacket and scarf. “You sure I can’t call you a cab?” he says, frowning. “You shouldn’t be driving.”

Niall shakes his head. “Got a car. Thanks, Li.” 

Liam gives him a searching look. Then he lurches forward, folding Niall into a rib-crushing hug.

“Be careful,” he says, his voice muffled in Niall’s jacket. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Immortality’s got its perks,” Niall says. “Pretty hard to do me in.” 

Liam draws back. There’s something unusually solemn in his warm brown eyes.

“I meant with Harry,” he says. “That's his car out back, isn’t it.” 

Niall hesitates for a moment. He can’t see the point of lying, not to Liam. “Yeah,” he says finally. “We, um. We talked upstairs, a bit. Think it’s a good thing though, Liam. Think it’ll be, like—closure.”

Liam still looks troubled. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. I guess so.” He chews at his bottom lip, then adds in a rush, “It’s none of my business, I know. It’s just, I know it looks like he’s doing okay, ‘cos of—of those pictures in the tabs. But he’s had a rough go of it these past couple months, Niall. He took it really hard, the whole thing. The band, and you.” 

It’s strange, Niall thinks, that he’s barely thought about the girl once since he saw Harry again half an hour or so ago. He’s looked at those grainy photos of them kissing so many times it feels like someone’s seared the image into his brain. He can fill in the rest of it from memory, even though he hasn’t seen Harry pull a girl in years. It was always the same, back in the early days. That slight shyness at first, belying the intensity of his focus. A quick flash of his dimples, eyes flicking uncertainly down to her mouth. Then a hand at her elbow, a palm against the small of her back. 

He’s listened to Harry with girls before, the sounds muffled through the walls of a hotel room. He’s pictured that too: Harry bringing her home and spreading her out on his big bed, fucking into her slow and deep. Taking his time with it. 

“Niall?” 

“I have to go,” he says, turning away. Liam follows him. “Don’t be angry with me,” he says, his voice almost pleading. “I just thought you should know.

Niall feels a brief stab of guilt. “’M not angry,” he says quickly, pulling Liam into another hug. “Promise. Thanks for telling me, mate, and – for the party, and everything.” 

Liam nods against his neck. “Love you,” he mumbles, kissing Niall’s cheek before letting him go, a little pink around the ears. 

“Love you too,” Niall says, catching his hand and squeezing it hard. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s not sure when, or if, they’ll see each other again, trying for a grin instead. “Now go make sure Lou hasn’t set anything on fire, yeah?”

*  
Liam’s house is gated, though even if it weren’t Niall thinks the cold would be enough to discourage any fans lingering outside. Still, he glances instinctively over his shoulder before he steps off the back step and makes his way towards the black SUV idling in the drive. When his fingers curl around the door handle he hesitates for a second, taking a deep breath. Then he pulls it open, a burst of warm air greeting him. 

Harry’s sitting by the far window, hunched over his phone. He’s worrying at his bottom lip, tugging it between his thumb and forefinger. When Niall climbs into the car he shoves it back into his pocket, looking up. 

“Thought you changed your mind.” 

“Took longer than I thought,” Niall says. "Sorry."

Harry nods once, but doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t scoot closer either, just stays by the window, looking out through the tinted glass as the car glides smoothly out of the drive and through the front gates. 

There’s a long, awkward silence, in which Niall casts about desperately for something to say. The partition’s up already, he notices. He wonders who’s driving, if the car service has sent one of Harry’s usual blokes. 

“Is it Pat up there?” he asks, nodding towards the front. “Haven’t seen him in ages.”

The sound of his voice seems to startle Harry. “No,” he says. “It’s someone new.” 

“Oh,” Niall says, and falls silent again, drumming his fingertips against the armrest. Maybe that’s why Harry seems reluctant to touch him. It’s not as if the driver can see what they’re getting up to back here, but maybe he feels weird about it anyway. “You gave him the address?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

“Is he—" Niall starts to say, but whatever inane small talk he was going to make is lost when Harry suddenly slides across the seat and crawls into his lap, a tangle of limbs and sharp elbows. He takes Niall’s face in his hands and kisses him soundly, swallowing up his little noise of surprise. 

“Shh,” Harry says. 

In no time at all Harry's grinding down in his lap, groaning into his mouth when he feels Niall's dick fattening up in his jeans. It's been so long since Niall's been touched, so long since he's had Harry in his arms. He's a little drunk still, his head all mixed up, alcohol and jealousy and want all swirling together. That must be why he doesn't understand at first what Harry's doing when he slides down off the seat, settling in the cramped space between Niall's legs and the front seat. 

"Wha—" he says, but Harry's already working at his belt, quick clever fingers unfastening his jeans. He's got Niall's dick out before he's even really processed what's happening, the waistband of his boxers tugged down far enough so that Harry can get a hand around him.

"Quiet," Harry says, which is all the warning he gets before Harry bends down and takes the head of his cock into his mouth. 

The suddenness of it makes Niall kick his legs out instinctively, no doubt jarring the back of the driver's seat, and he groans when Harry grabs his thighs and holds him still, pinning him to the seat as he sucks him off. Harry doesn't tease, doesn't kitten-lick around the shaft or roll Niall's balls in his palm or any of the little things he usually does to drive Niall mad, just sucks hard on the head before he begins inching slowly, steadily deeper. 

It's Niall who chokes first, gulping down air as he feels the tight, hot channel of Harry's throat fluttering around him. The muscles in his thighs strain as he fights the impulse to thrust, letting Harry control the pace and the angle, his fingers curling helplessly against the seat. Harry holds him there for what feels like ages before he pulls off, gasping and coughing a little, and rests his forehead against Niall's thigh.

"Fucking hell, Harry," Niall groans, but Harry isn't done. 

He wraps a hand around the base of Niall's spit-slick cock, pulling it towards him again, his mouth parting slightly. Niall expects him to start sucking again, but instead Harry looks up at him, a peculiar intensity in his gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward, turning his face so that the wet, shiny head of Niall's prick drags slowly over the pink bow of his lips, across his cheekbone and temple, leaving a trail of spit and precome behind. 

As Niall watches, mouth half-open, Harry nuzzles his cheek against the shaft, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to press at the slit.

Niall's orgasm hits him before he can gasp out a warning, his body curling in on itself as he comes in thick, hot spurts across Harry's lips and cheek. Harry takes him quickly back into his mouth, the flat of his tongue pressed against the underside of Niall's cock as he sucks him dry. There's come on his cheek, in his eyelashes, even a bit in his hair. 

"Shit," Niall gasps, when he can speak again. "Shit, sorry, sorry - "

Harry touches his cheek with his fingertips, feeling the wetness there. 

"There's tissues," he says. His voice comes out wrecked, and Niall thinks, with a sudden surge of possessiveness, _I did that_. "Back of the seat, there." 

Niall tucks himself away first, then leans over to fish them out of the seatback pocket. He cleans Harry up as best he can, cupping his chin in his hand to hold his head steady. Harry must be uncomfortable, his long lean body folded up awkwardly between the seats, but he doesn’t move, just closes his eyes, only grimacing a bit when Niall scrubs at his eyelashes. 

"Didn't mean for you to come yet," he says, sounding a bit rueful. "Wanted you to fuck me when we got home." 

Home. Right. Niall remembers suddenly, like he’s just woken from a dream, that they're in a car, practically in public, and only a few meters away from their unsuspecting driver. He glances out the window, blinking into the darkness. The street’s familiar, only a few blocks from his house. 

“Dunno if I could’ve waited,” Niall admits. “Think I can still manage it, though.” He’s surprised to find that it’s true. He feels exhausted—that's pretty much a constant these days, given how badly he's been sleeping—but his body's still thrumming with energy. He’s pretty sure that whatever else happens tonight, he's going to be wanking to the memory of Harry on his knees, face upturned and streaked with Niall's come, for the rest of eternity. 

"C'mere,” he says when he’s through, tucking the tissues away into his jacket pocket. It’s a little disgusting, but better than making someone else clean up their mess. “Want to kiss you.”

"You know what I'm gonna taste like," Harry warns him, but he wriggles back up easily enough. Niall coaxes his mouth open, sucking gently at Harry’s bottom lip until he melts into the kiss, pliant in his arms. By the time the car pulls up in front of the house, though, Harry’s squirming in his lap again, making small, needy little sounds that are going straight to Niall’s dick. 

There’s no paps following them for once, thank god, no one to witness Niall fumbling with his keys in front of the house, nearly dropping them twice. It doesn’t help that Harry’s crowding him in from behind, breathing hotly against the side of Niall’s neck, his cold hands slipping up under his jumper. 

The car’s still sitting out front. Niall gets the front door open and turns to wave off the driver, but Harry makes a frustrated noise and pushes him through, slamming it shut behind them. He’s pushing Niall’s coat off his shoulders as he kisses him, yanking impatiently at his belt. 

“Hey, slow down,” Niall says. “It’s all right. We’ve got all night.”

“Says the bloke who’s already come,” Harry grumbles. Niall presses him up against the door and kisses him slowly, deeply, nudging a leg between Harry’s so he can grind down against it. 

For a second Niall’s tempted to make him come like this—thighs clenched and quivering around him, maybe a hand on him if Harry begs sweetly enough. It wouldn’t take much, he knows: Harry hasn’t even been touched and he’s hard already, his dick straining against his jeans just from sucking Niall off in the car. 

But the desire to touch him for real, to have Harry naked and squirming under him as soon as possible, wins out. 

“Bed,” he decides. 

Harry makes a pleased noise and wraps a leg around his waist. Niall’s just tipsy enough still to try and lift him, hoisting him up and stumbling towards the stairs. He manages a few steps, Harry clinging to him like a limpet, before his legs buckle beneath him, sending them both crashing down onto the rug. Harry laughs into his mouth, a bright startled sound.

“You big strong man,” he says fondly, then looks uncertain, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to tease. 

Niall doesn't quite trust himself to respond. He just grasps Harry's face in his hands and kisses him again, teeth tugging lightly at his bottom lip.

They make it up the stairs somehow, tripping over each other’s feet the whole way. It’s not till they reach the bedroom that Niall remembers the state he’s left it in. The floor’s strewn with half-full boxes, labeled for storage. His battered suitcase lies open in the corner, the clothes he’s taking with him dumped unceremoniously inside.

“Sorry it’s such a tip,” he says, but Harry doesn’t answer. He strips his shirt off, letting it fall to the ground beside him, and crosses over to the bed, flopping down onto it with the ease of long familiarity. 

“Come on,” he says. He unzips his jeans and wriggles out of them—Niall’s mouth goes dry when he sees Harry hasn’t bothered with pants—then strips off his socks, pushing the whole heap of clothes off the edge of the bed with one foot. Once he’s naked he licks his palm and gives himself a few quick tugs, watching Niall watch him. 

“Going to have to do everything myself, I see,” Harry complains, dropping his head back onto the mattress. He presses the edge of his thumbnail just under the head of his dick and lets out a ragged groan, his stomach muscles contracting. 

It breaks the spell. Niall’s body is moving before his brain catches up, scrambling up onto the mattress and stretching out beside him. He’s still got his own jeans on but he can’t be bothered to deal with them now, too focused on Harry. 

“Hands off,” he says, and Harry stops touching himself, lets his hand fall back onto the mattress.

Niall doesn’t know where to touch him first, what to do with him. He strokes over the soft skin of Harry’s belly, just to feel the muscles fluttering again beneath under his skin, then dips his hand lower to cup his balls, rolling them gently in one hand. Harry just watches him, his eyes dark, expectant. There’s no trace of the guarded expression he'd worn earlier in Liam’s bedroom. There’s only trust in his gaze now, staggering in its simplicity. 

“Harry,” he says. “God, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but his lips part slightly. 

“I want to touch you,” Niall says. “Can I touch you?”

Harry nods. “Whatever you want,” he says simply. “You can have it, Niall.”

Niall bends to kiss his collarbone, to hide the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. It isn’t true, he knows, as much as he wishes it were. 

He wants Harry, true, but not just now, not just like this. He wants him warm in his arms again and laughing, all forgiven between them, a long lazy weekend ahead of them with nowhere in the world to be. Niall wants a lifetime of those weekends, an eternity. And if he can’t have that—if he never will, never could—what he wants most of all is to have been human. He wants to have lived and died under the grey of an Irish sky, a long time ago. To have worked his hands raw in the fields beside his father, gone walking with a girl, been laid to rest beneath the rocky earth. 

He wants to have had a different story. 

The feeling of Harry’s hand in his hair, fingers raking across his scalp, brings him back to himself. “Okay,” he says, on a shaky exhale. “Just – give me a second.” 

He crawls across the bed to the bedside table, fumbling in the drawer for the lube he keeps there. The bottle’s nearly empty, but it’ll be enough. After a second’s hesitation, he grabs a condom too, trying to suppress the little flare of jealousy he feels at the thought of someone else being with Harry like this. Harry doesn’t comment when he sees it, just tips his head back onto the pillow, legs splaying further apart. 

“On your stomach, okay?” Niall says, dropping the condom and lube on the bed beside him. 

For a moment Harry looks like he’s going to protest; then he shuts his mouth and rolls over onto his belly. He props himself up on his elbows, letting his head hang down between his arms. When Niall runs a hand down his back, stroking along the curve of his spine, he trembles and lifts his hips a little, rutting into the mattress before he catches himself and stills. 

“Good,” Niall says. He tucks a pillow under Harry’s hips before letting his hand dip lower, rubbing slow circles over Harry’s hole with his fingertips. He presses his thumb to the rim of it, and then inside, just a little. Harry hisses out a breath—it must be uncomfortable for him, Niall knows, verging on painful—but he still pushes back eagerly, trying to take him deeper.

“Niall,” he says, his voice pleading. 

“Not yet,” Niall tells him. He bends down to blow over the tiny furled bud, watches it tighten around his finger. Harry makes a noise like a sob, his whole body tensing. “Relax,” Niall says, and then he lowers his head and licks a broad, wet stripe between his cheeks, dragging the flat of his tongue over his hole. 

Harry thrashes beneath him. “I can’t,” he says. “I’ll come, Niall, I can’t – ”

“Shh,” Niall says, and does it again, slower this time, tracing lazy circles around Harry’s rim with the tip of his tongue. 

Slowly, carefully, he opens him up, working first his tongue inside and then two lube-slick fingers, licking between them. Harry doesn’t come, though Niall can feel the effort it’s costing him not to. At first he clutches the duvet with both hands, pressing his sweaty forehead against his forearm; then, as his body grows accustomed to it, he starts to relax, the tension leaching from his body. Niall’s careful not to pay too much attention to his prostate, only brushing over it shallowly as he works him open. He wants to be inside Harry when he comes. 

“’M ready,” Harry says some time later, lifting his head. The words come out slightly slurred. “Please, Niall.” 

Niall withdraws his fingers, wiping them on his jeans. Then he slides off the bed and strips them off, along with his pants. Harry turns his head to the side, watching him. When Niall climbs back onto the bed and reaches for the condom, Harry grabs his wrist. “You don’t have to,” he says.

Niall looks at him, not understanding. “But you—”

“I haven’t,” Harry says, and then, fumblingly, “I mean—if you have, then. That’s fine. But I haven’t.”

Niall’s stomach does a funny flop. “That girl,” he says. “The one in the papers.”

Harry shakes his head once, shortly. Then he twists back around, hiding his face in the pillow. 

“Okay,” Niall says, as much to himself as to Harry. He drops the unopened condom on the bed and reaches for the lube instead. He feels slightly dazed, staring at the tense line of Harry’s shoulders as he slicks himself up. It doesn’t change anything, not really, but—it feels like everything’s shifted slightly, the air somehow more charged. 

He presses in slowly, letting Harry adjust to the feel of it. He’s tight, almost as tight as he’d been the first few times they did this, but Niall’s patient. He works a hand between his stomach and the pillow and strokes Harry through it, using the rest of the lube to make the slide of it slick and tight. 

It takes them both a moment to remember how their bodies fit together, but once they figure it out, it’s not long before they’re both gasping. Christ, Niall had almost forgotten how responsive Harry is—how his body gives everything away; how he doesn’t, can’t, seem to hold anything back. The way he gives himself over to the feeling of getting fucked, gets lost in it, dazed by it. Harry’s whimpering now, little sounds as he thrusts into Niall’s hand, quiet into the pillow. 

“So tight, pet,” Niall murmurs, kissing the nape of his neck. “Doing so well.”

"Tell me – ’m good," Harry begs, his voice muffled. 

“You're good, baby.” Niall rolls his hips forward, driving deeper, working them both into a slow, steady rhythm. “So good, pet.” 

The air feels close and hot around them. There’s so little space between their bodies, just damp skin sliding against skin. It feels too intimate for a one-night stand between exes. But then again, sex with Harry has always felt like something _more_ , closer and more intense than anything Niall's ever experienced before. He buries his face in Harry’s hair as he rocks into him, breathing in the scent of him. 

When Harry finally comes he sighs, his cock twitching in Niall’s hand, body relaxing into it. Niall eases him through his orgasm, then picks up the pace again, fucking into him in once, twice, three times more before he’s coming too, spilling hot inside him. 

*

Afterwards Niall means to get up, to clean them both up and maybe put the kettle on. There’s a talk he needs to have with Harry—the one he should’ve had months ago, when he’d been too busy having his own quiet breakdown to think about anyone else. Harry doesn’t need to know everything, but it’s clear to Niall that telling him nothing at all was far crueler than he’d ever meant it to be. 

Harry falls asleep almost immediately, though, his breathing evening out before Niall even has the chance to suggest a shower. He won’t be thanking Niall later, when he wakes up all tacky with sweat and come, but Niall looks at the dark circles under his eyes and decides to let him sleep.

It’ll be better to talk when they’re both rested, anyway. They’ll talk, and then Niall will leave, but now—well, it feels different now, the thought of leaving Harry. It still feels like a goodbye, the end of whatever they’ve been to each other these past few years. Harry might not have slept with that girl, but Niall knows there’ll be another one, or even a bloke—someone who will make Harry happy, grow old with him in a way that Niall can’t. 

And yet. He keeps thinking about Louis, cuffing him on the back of the head and threatening to hunt him down if he doesn’t call. Maybe—maybe he’ll be able to talk like that with Harry too someday, once there’s time and distance between them. Maybe they’ll even be able to build something like a friendship again. Something different, but stronger in its way, more resilient. 

He thinks about this as he gets up and goes into the bathroom, brushing his teeth and drinking a glass of water. He checks his phone: it’s not even that late, just gone two-thirty. Really he should fetch a blood bag from the kitchen downstairs, but it feels weird doing it with Harry asleep in his bed, knowing how Harry feels about it. It’s not urgent, anyway, just a slight pang of thirst. It can wait till Harry leaves in the morning. 

Niall crawls back into bed with a flannel in hand, cleaning Harry up before shifting him out of the wet spot. Then he sets his phone alarm for eight in the morning. He checks the security camera feed on his app before bed, an old but deeply ingrained habit, and frowns. 

The black SUV that brought them home is still parked on the street outside. Probably Harry had asked him to wait, in case he hadn’t felt like sleeping over afterwards. 

The decent thing to do would be to go out and knock on the window so the poor bloke doesn’t have to sleep out there in his car. But it’s cold and Niall’s naked, and already nearly half asleep himself. He settles for the next best thing: texting the car service with the license plate number. They’ve got staff on hand round the clock for this kind of thing. Surely there’ll be someone who can ring him and let him know he’s not needed anymore. 

Once he’s finished, he puts his phone facedown on the bedside table and crawls under the duvet, spooning up behind Harry. After a moment of hesitation he puts an arm around him and pulls him in close, fingers splaying over the soft warm swell of his belly. 

“Night, love,” he murmurs, and lets sleep pull him under. 

*

He wakes up confused and disoriented, his throat so dry it hurts to swallow. It’s still dark out, though through the bedroom window he can see that the sky outside is just beginning to lighten, the inky black of the night sky bleeding away. It’s not till he sits up in bed, reaching for the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table, that he realizes Harry is gone. 

It stings, badly. Though he’s not sure what he expected. Hadn’t he made it clear enough at Liam’s, that there was no future in this, that tonight—last night—was the last time? Harry had even promised him. _I won’t ask for anything else. I’ll be good._

Niall lies back down and covers his face with his hands. He lets the pain of Harry’s leaving wash over him, in all its excruciating agony, feels it flood every molecule of his being. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out again. Nothing more, then. The last. 

Sleep eludes him. After a while he pushes back the duvet and gets up, pulling on his boxers and a rumpled white t-shirt he finds in a heap of clothes he’s dumped on the floor to pack later. He picks his way across the room in the dark, stepping over his suitcase and a half-full storage box, and makes his way towards the kitchen. Might as well feed if he’s up.

He’s halfway down the stairs when the smell of it hits him. It’s so thick it almost chokes him, makes him stagger against the railing. Before he can even process what’s happening his body’s reacting. His fangs descend so rapidly he makes an inarticulate noise of pained surprise, clutching at his face with his hands. Something coils in his stomach, a dark, hungry wanting.

_Blood._

The kitchen is dark, but there’s a light on at the end of the hall, the bathroom door standing wide open. Niall moves blindly towards the source of the scent, stumbling along the hallway. He’s fighting hard to keep the predator’s instincts from taking over, trying to keep himself alert and human for a few moments longer.

What's waiting for him is a nightmare, come to horrible life. Niall sees it in bits, in fragments, standing in front of the open door. He can’t make sense of it, can’t add up the pieces of it into something that means anything at all. 

The bathroom looks like the set of a horror movie. Like something out of a slasher film, the kind of thing Zayn and Louis used to watch on the bus late at night: all shock and no substance, gore for the sake of it. There’s blood _everywhere_ : splashed across the mirror and the countertop, soaking the pale lavender hand-towel Niall’s left there a dark, violent red. The sink basin brims with it, the drain stopped up. 

And there's Harry.

Harry’s standing slumped against the sink, his head bowed, body swaying slightly. He’s got something clenched tight in his right fist. It’s the straight razor from Niall’s shaving kit, glinting silver in the dark. 

He’d packed it yesterday. Harry must’ve dug for it. Must’ve gone through Niall’s bags in the dark while he was sleeping—knowing it was there, looking for it. Keeping quiet in the dark.

The blade is wet with blood. 

In that first moment of seeing—not comprehension, not for a long time yet—there’s nothing at all in Niall’s head. 

That’s what he’ll remember, later. Not the dejected slump of Harry’s shoulders or the thick, cloying smell of blood; the violent shock of red, the sick twist of thirst in his belly—only those first seconds of terrible, implacable nothing, a black hole yawning open at the center of him. It swallows the light, all of it. It eats up everything it touches, insatiable: memory, fear, pain. 

He can’t move. Niall can’t move. 

Then Harry lifts his head, meeting his gaze in the mirror. His expression is defiant at first, his eyes red-rimmed from crying, but whatever he sees in Niall’s face must startle him badly. Something falls out of his hands then, landing in the sink with a wet, sickening splash. 

He turns, moving away from the sink, and Niall sees what he’s dropped.

It’s a plastic bag. Slashed open with a razor, floating in the blood that laps at the edges of the stopped-up basin. The countertop behind him is strewn with the wreckage of half a dozen others just like it: all of them slit open the exact same way, mostly empty. Blood congeals gruesomely around the cuts, like wounds in living flesh. 

Niall’s legs are shaking. He puts a hand out blindly, grabbing for the doorframe, and misses. 

Harry’s there suddenly, tugging at his arm. “Niall, look at me,” he demands, his voice panicked.

It all comes rushing back, all the noise and fear and _thirst,_ a roaring in his ears so loud it drowns out thought. His knees give out beneath him, and he sits down hard, bringing Harry with him. 

Then Harry’s in his lap, cradling his face in his hands. He’s saying something to him, _look at me look at me look at me,_ saying his name over and over, the words running together into a long ragged sob. Niall can see his mouth moving but something’s gone wrong in his head; he can’t hear him properly, can’t make out a word he’s saying. 

It feels like he's at the bottom of a deep, dark well. Harry’s shouting down to him, his voice echoey and faint, the light a long ways off. The water is closing over his head. 

Niall wants to beg. Wants to beat his fists raw against the inflexible shape of his past, his present, his fixed and immutable future. _Please,_ he would say if he could speak, if the muscles in his jaw weren’t clenched hard enough to shatter bone. The same words he’d cried out centuries ago, weeping, pleading, falling down in the dark. The trees looming closer; the water rising higher. _I don’t want to die. l want to live._

Someone slaps him across the face, hard. The world flickers around him, a dark forest bleeding into something else, somewhere else. 

“Breathe, Niall,” Harry says. He’s with Niall somehow, down at the bottom of the well. He looks terrified, his eyes huge in his pale face. Niall can smell the blood all over him, the faintest hint of whisky on his breath. He can see how Harry’s crying and trying to stop himself crying at the same time, his face all twisted up with the effort, touching Niall’s face with both hands. 

It’s wrong, it’s terribly wrong. It’s a mistake for Harry to be here, seeing him like this, a mistake for Harry to be covered in blood, terribly wounded—no, or—there’s something gone wrong there, something that doesn’t add up, and Niall can’t make his thoughts connect. All he knows is that Harry can’t die, not like this: not terrified and confused, reeking of blood. Not like Niall had.

He takes a huge, heaving breath. Pain knifes through his ribs, sharp, bright-edged. His lungs feel too tight, like they were made for some function besides breathing. 

“That’s good,” Harry chokes out, his face wet with tears. “Another, Niall. Take another.” 

Niall breathes again, and again. He keeps breathing till the water is gone, the well dry. They’re above ground, sitting on the cold tile floor of his guest bathroom, and Harry is with him, warm in his arms, his hands like brands against Niall’s face. Niall’s breathing now but he can’t stop shivering. Harry’s hands aren’t enough. They can’t give him the kind of warmth he needs. 

“Cold,” he croaks. “’M so cold.” 

Harry tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, pulls it over his head. Niall watches him dumbly, uncomprehending. The shivering won’t stop. It’ll shake him apart. 

“You need to drink.” Harry’s voice is steadier now, more confident. “You’re in shock and you’re thirsty. You need to drink.”

Niall knows it’s a bad idea, knows it. But he can’t remember why, can barely remember who he is. His head’s a mess right now, everything all mixed up inside him. Everything smells like blood, and he’s shaking with cold and bloodlust and the aftershocks of panic. He’s clinging to the thought of Harry: the one thing he’s certain of, his one real, safe place. 

Harry settles himself between his legs. He takes Niall’s face in his hands again and leans forward, guiding him to his throat. “Come on,” he says, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Come on, Niall, it’s time.” 

He touches his throat with two fingertips, smearing some stranger’s blood across his skin. It awakens something in Niall, some strange territorial instinct. 

He’s too far gone to be gentle, more creature than human at this point. Harry cries out when the fangs pierce his flesh, tries instinctively to twist away, but Niall manages to wrestle him to the ground, the bloodlust lending him a desperate strength, and climbs on top of him. He sinks his fangs in again, the flesh yielding easily this time. Hot blood fills his mouth, the rush carrying him higher than any drug. 

It’s richer, sweeter, than any blood he’s ever had. It floods his senses, dizzying him, till his head’s spinning with it. The room tilts crazily around him. He drinks and drinks. Beneath him, Harry gradually stops struggling, goes still and limp, unnoticed. There’s nothing but the predator in Niall’s brain now, no sense but the hot rush of blood pulsing into his mouth, quickly at first, then slower, more sluggish. 

When he comes back to himself, he’s slumped against Harry in the hallway, one hand fisted loosely in his curls, his face pressed against Harry’s throat. His fangs have retracted, now that the bloodlust’s been sated, but the bite itself stands out livid and dark, still oozing blood; he’s not closed it properly. He does his best now, licking at it carefully, though his thoughts are listless, his limbs so heavy it’s an effort just to keep his eyes open. 

He wants to sleep. But his prey – no, _Harry_ – won’t stay still. He stirs weakly beneath him, straining upwards, trying to press his throat to Niall’s mouth again. He’s murmuring something, words all jumbled up, a slow slur. “No, please – you’re not – not done, just. Keep going, keep – Niall, _please_ , s’ not done yet.” 

Niall remembers, then.

Remembers his first glimpse of the bathroom: the razor in Harry’s hand and the slashed-open bags, plastic carcasses floating in a sink brimming with blood. He remembers the flash of triumph in Harry’s eyes; the panic, first, and after it the bloodlust, his mind lost in the predator’s. He’s never lost control like that before, never come so close to a kill. 

_Never?_ asks a voice in the back of his mind, a cold, amused voice. Niall pulls away.

“What?” he asks sharply. “What did you say?”

Harry’s eyes are half-closed. His mouth moves slowly, half-forming the shapes of words, but no sound comes out. He’s paler than Niall’s ever seen him before, his skin ashen with blood loss. 

“Can do it,” he murmurs finally, each word an effort. He drags a hand up to his throat, pressing roughly at the wound, and Niall realizes with a start he’s trying to reopen it. “Wanted – all th’ way, just. Wanted it. Could feel it, Ni, got so close.” 

He tries to grab at Niall’s wrist, pull him in, but Niall jerks away as if he’s been burned. He scrambles off Harry, pushing himself backwards, trying to put some distance between them. Harry slumps down to the ground, curling weakly in on himself, the vestiges of some self-protective instinct. 

_Prey_ , the monster in Niall’s brain thinks again, and he jerks back even farther, his back hitting the sink. He can’t stop staring at Harry.

“You planned this.” The realization burns through him. “Jesus Christ, Harry. You tricked me back here, waited till I fell asleep. So you could – so you could do this?”

“S’ the – only way,” Harry mumbles. He pushes himself up into a seating position, though the effort seems to cost him a great deal. “Had to. You’re leaving. S’last chance.” 

“I would have killed you,” Niall says, his voice flat, completely emotionless. “Harry, it doesn’t work like that. For the turning to take, it has to be intentional. Otherwise I would’ve drained you dry. I would have kept feeding until there was nothing left.”

Would’ve gorged himself on it, not even wondering why it was too much, why it tasted so sweet and familiar. He would’ve forgotten Harry, what he meant to him, till the bloodlust was sated and Niall was left holding him in his arms: his Harry, dead. Murdered. 

It’d be his doing. His fault. 

He staggers to the toilet, barely making it to his knees before he’s vomiting. It’s blood and bile mostly – his body’s not really built for this kind of thing anymore, makes hangovers even more unpleasant – but it helps a little, relieves some of the nausea roiling in his gut. 

He wipes at the back of his mouth with his hand. It comes back smeared with red. 

“Niall,” says Harry from behind him. He’s managed to get to his feet, at least—it could be worse, so much worse. If he goes home and rests for a few days, eats a steak or two, maybe he’ll be okay. 

He puts a tentative hand on Niall’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Niall snarls, getting to his feet. He doesn’t turn around. “Get out of here, Harry. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

“Niall, please.” Niall can hear the tears threatening in his voice again, the way Harry’s choking on a sob. But he’s fallen for that once already, not even twenty-four hours ago. “I’m sorry, Niall, I didn’t mean it, I never meant to frighten you – ”

“I said get _out_.” Niall’s voice is cold, unyielding. 

Harry’s lied to him, over and over again. He’s deceived him, gained access to Niall’s home, tried to force him into turning him. Niall’s got no idea what’s true anymore. No idea if any of it was real: not just last night, but before, too. Maybe—and he tries to shove this thought away, but can’t quite manage it—maybe this is all Harry’s ever wanted from him: immortality, whatever the cost. The hooks of that suspicion are already sinking deep into his mind, unspooling darkly in the coils of his brain.

The one thing he’s sure of is that Harry can’t be trusted, that Niall’s one safe place has been destroyed. There’ll be time to mourn that later, when he’s left this place for good. Time to scrub Harry out of his memories, out of his past, the way he’s tried to do with Jack. 

Harry must realize that Niall’s serious. He’s gone when Niall turns back around, when he turns and stalks out of the ruined bathroom, makes his way back up the stairs to his room. 

From his bedroom window he can see Harry, standing on the front steps of the house. He’s hugging himself tightly, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to keep himself warm, or hold himself together. He’s got his jacket on at least, pulled tight so no one can see the bloodstains soaking his t-shirt. 

He steps off the front stoop and into the drive. For a moment it seems like he’s heading out towards the street, like he’s going to make his way halfway across London on foot, or call a cab somewhere else. Then he stops dead in the middle of the drive. He shakes his head hard, like he’s trying to clear it, and puts a hand to his temple. 

The black SUV’s still waiting at the end of the street. After a moment Harry turns begins walking towards it instead, his steps slow and dragging. 

He doesn’t look back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is almost certainly full of typos, glaring inconsistencies, and moments of WILDLY self-indulgent angst, but at some point you just gotta release the imperfect thing into the world. there will be a final resolution chapter/epilogue, and I swear to god it's full of more classic narry humor, fluff, and dumb boys finally working things out. also there's a small surprise in it. before that, though: suffering.

After Harry’s gone, Niall fills a bucket at the kitchen sink, running the water hot enough to scald his fingers. He’s trembling still, movements jerky and awkward, and when he goes to turn the tap off he sort of blacks out for a second, his mind going blank. Somewhere in the distance a woman’s screaming, screaming, and Niall’s staring at his hand on the tap but he can’t remember why it’s there, can’t remember how to make it move. The bucket’s overflowing, the sink filling slowly with blood. 

That’s not—no. With an effort Niall wrenches himself back into the present, switching off the tap. It’s only water in the bucket, he sees now: frothy with soap, tinged pink from the blood on his hands. It’s only water, and the kitchen is still and dark around him, the silence unbroken. 

Most of his cleaning stuff’s already packed away, but he finds an unopened package of sponges under the sink, and a roll of paper towels too. He starts with the hallway first, because there’s only traces of blood there: a few spattered drops on the dark wood floor and a single bloody handprint just above the baseboard, the press of a palm and five smeared fingerprints. Harry must’ve flung a hand out in surprise when Niall wrestled him to the ground, when he sank his fangs into Harry’s throat and _took._

He jerks himself out of the memory so violently he almost upsets the bucket. “Stop it,” he says to the silence, or to himself, maybe. There’s no response. He plunges his hand back into the bucket, clenching the sponge tight in his fist, and draws it out. 

It takes him ages. He keeps having to stop scrubbing at the tiles and rest, leaning his head against the wall. More than once he drifts off into an uneasy sleep, only to jerk awake again, as if someone’s gripped him by the shoulders and shaken him hard. 

By the time he finishes, the day’s half gone. He drags the bucket, the ruined towels, and a plastic bag full of soiled sponges outside, blinking against the weak grey sunlight. Probably he should burn them or something, conceal the evidence, but instead he just tips the whole lot into the bin, for some scavenging pap to dig up and have a heart attack over. Who the fuck cares if the _Daily Mail_ thinks he’s been hosting depraved satanic rituals in his garden. They wouldn’t be far off the mark. 

Inside he draws the curtains and turns on the television, some footie match he’d recorded days ago. He turns up the volume loud enough he can’t hear himself think. Then he curls up on his side on the sofa, his head tucked into the crook of his arm, and waits for the aching in his chest to subside. 

*

He sleeps away the rest of the day, drifting in and out of consciousness. Sometime after the sun’s gone down he gets up and makes himself some tea, sitting at the kitchen table eating stale biscuits and staring blankly at nothing. The rest of the night’s spent packing and tidying, boxing up the last of his things for storage. Finally he strips the rumpled sheets off the bed upstairs and carries them down to the laundry, tipping detergent into the machine, watching the spin-cycle run. 

Night bleeds into morning, into day. 

His flight’s not till seven, but Louis’ arranged to collect him for the airport at half past three. When there’s nothing left to clean, Niall flops back down on the sofa and finally pulls out his phone. His phone’s cluttered with unread texts—messages from people who’d missed the going-away party, a few from friends back in Ireland, wishing him safe travels. Niall scrolls rapidly down the list and then closes out of the app without bothering to read any of them. It’ll give him something to do on the plane, maybe. 

He’s just dropped his phone back onto his chest when it starts buzzing. Niall picks it up, then frowns, squinting at the screen. He thumbs over the _decline_ button. 

Almost immediately it starts vibrating again. This time Niall lets it ring straight through to voicemail. He’s in no mood to get told off by an angry Nick Grimshaw. 

A text buzzes in. _Pick up, Horan._

Niall sighs. This time he answers on the first ring. “What is it?” he says shortly. 

“Put Harry on,” Nick says. “I’m sure you’re busy having loads of make-up sex or whatever, but I need to speak with him. He can’t text me shit like that and then switch off his phone.” 

Niall blinks, unsure how to respond. “Harry’s not here.”

There’s a pause. “What do you mean, he’s not there?” 

“He’s not with me,” Niall says. “You’d better ring him instead.”

“I have,” Nick says slowly. “About a dozen times. And I went round to his house with the spare key earlier, but nobody’s home. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been there all weekend.”

Niall feels the first, faint stirrings of unease. “Sorry,” he says. “I don’t know where he is. Listen, I’ve got to go, Grimmy. I’ve a flight to catch.” 

“Wait,” Nick says. “But you—you’re not still going, are you? Harry said it was all sorted.” 

“He said what?”

“He texted me,” Nick says slowly. “At arse o’clock on Sunday morning. He said – you two worked things out, I thought. He said everything was all right.” 

The night plays out in Niall’s head again in flashes. Upstairs at Liam’s, Harry crying on the bed. Harry on his knees in the car, looking up at him. Stretched out naked on the bed beneath him, writhing, fisting the sheets in his hands. 

Then, later: the scent of blood, heavy in the air. His own voice, cold and clear. _Get out. I don’t ever want to see you again._

“Sorry,” Niall says again, abruptly. “He did come back to mine, Saturday night. But he’s gone now. It’s finished.” 

He hangs up before Nick can respond. 

Niall can’t settle, after. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind: a vague, half-formed uneasiness, a feeling like something’s not quite slotting into place. He ignores it. If Harry’s not with Nick or at home, he’s most likely with his family—home in Holmes Chapel with Anne and Robin, or holed up in Gemma’s flat, gone off the grid for a while. Or maybe he’s left London, finally, gone back to LA like he should’ve done months ago. 

_Or maybe he’s ill,_ a little voice says. _Maybe you took too much. Maybe—_

No. Niall had watched him go, stumbling out the front door onto the drive. He’d watched Harry walk to the SUV on his own—a little unsteady on his feet, maybe, but still upright, still fine—and pull the door open, sliding inside. If something had happened on the way home, Pat would’ve taken him straight to the hospital, or called a doctor. He would never have let a sick Harry go inside alone. 

Niall straightens up, remembering something. It hadn’t been Pat driving that night, had it? Someone new, Harry’d said.

He winds up calling the car service, just to quiet his own jitters. “I’m sorry, dear, someone should’ve left you a message,” says the woman who answers. “It’s the Sunday shift, I’m afraid, they’re always a little behind.”

“A message about what?” Niall’s heart’s in his throat. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Horan, nothing like that,” the woman says. “It’s just, the number plate you sent us? That’s not one of our vehicles, I’m afraid.”

Niall thanks her and rings off. So Harry’s changed car services. It still doesn’t mean anything’s wrong. 

Still, he opens a text to Harry. Quickly, he taps out, _call grimmy . hes worried_ , pressing send before he can change his mind. 

*

Louis arrives twenty minutes late, Liam in tow. “Chop chop, Nialler,” Louis says when he opens the door, like it’s Niall who’s causing the delay. “Traffic’s shit, we’ve got to go.”

“Sorry, I made him pick me up and it took ages,” Liam says. “I know you didn’t want a big send-off or anything, but it felt weird, missing it.” He looks a little uncertain of his welcome. The last time they’d spoken, Niall remembers, Liam had been warning him to be careful with Harry. 

He wishes he’d listened. “Glad you could make it, Payno,” he says instead. “I’m all set.”

“That’s it?” Louis gives the rucksack Niall’s slung over his shoulder a skeptical look. “Planning on wearing the same three shirts for all eternity, are you?”

“Still got a credit card, don’t I.” He pats his back pocket, checking for his wallet. Then he frowns, remembering something. “Hang on a minute, sorry. Left my charger upstairs.”

The master bedroom looks huge and empty, stripped of all his possessions. Niall crawls onto the bare mattress and sticks a hand between the bedframe and the wall, feeling around for the outlet. His fingers brush against something solid. He fishes it out, the charger forgotten, and stares. It’s Harry’s phone. 

His vague sense of uneasiness coalesces into something cold and hard in the pit of his stomach. He scoots over to the edge of the mattress. Miraculously, the phone’s still got charge left, a tiny sliver of battery showing in the top right corner. Niall glances guiltily at the door, then keys in Harry’s passcode.

There’s the text he’d sent half an hour ago. But there’s loads of other messages too, including about twenty from Nick. Niall scrolls up through them to the last time Harry’d responded, a burst of messages sent just after five thirty on Sunday morning. 

_it wasnt a mistake Grim. its all going to be ok_  
_I didnt know how to fix it before but I do now and im not scared_  
_It doesnt even hurt, thats what he told me. when it happens ill just go to sleep and wake up different_

“Neil!” Louis yells from the foot of the stairs. 

Niall doesn’t respond. He’s staring at Harry’s phone. 

_??_ Nick’s texted back, a few hours later. _Whos he ?? Niall?_

“Shit,” Niall breathes. “Shit, shit—” He scrolls through Harry’s texts again. All names he recognizes: Ben W., Jeff, Lou, Nick, Liam. Then he sees it. 

He freezes. 

“C’mon, slowcoach.” Louis’s in the doorway, shaking his keys at Niall. When he sees the phone in Niall’s hand his eyes narrow. “Why have you got Harry’s phone?”

There’s no air left in Niall’s lungs. “Lou,” he croaks out. His throat feels scraped raw. “Lou, I – ” 

He stands, swaying. The phone slips through his fingers onto the carpet. In a flash Louis’ at his side, steadying him. “Liam!” he yells. “Liam, get up here, something’s wrong!” 

Niall wrenches his arm free of Louis’ grasp. He staggers blindly forward, only to collide with Liam coming into the room. Liam catches him by the upper arms. “Whoa,” he says. “You okay?”

There’s noise around him, and confusion. He hears Louis say, urgently, “Has he got pills or something? In his bag, maybe?” 

“I don’t know,” Liam says. “What happened? What set him off?”

“He’s got Harry’s phone—he was looking at it when I came in and his face went all funny—”

“Harry’s _here_?” 

Niall sags against Liam. “S’my fault,” he mumbles into his shirt. “S’my fault – _Harry_.”

“You’re all right, Niall,” Liam says. “Just breathe, that’s a good lad.”

“It’s a text,” Louis says from somewhere behind him. “That’s what he was looking at, Liam. From somebody called Jack. Jack Healy?” 

A sob wells up in Niall’s throat, choking him. 

“Is he here, Niall?” Liam says. “Where’s Harry?”

Niall can’t feel his hands, his face. He’s numb all over. The horror of it, the iron certainty, closes round his heart like a vise. 

“He’s dead,” he whispers, and then, dazedly: “Harry’s dead.” 

*

There’s a stunned silence. Liam lets go of his arms, stepping back. Louis says, sharply, “That’s not fucking funny.” 

“I’m sorry,” Niall breathes out. 

When Louis grabs his shoulder, hard, he flinches away from the touch. His brain’s gone fuzzy round the edges. All he wants is to curl up somewhere dark and quiet, to be alone.

“Cut it out, for Christ’s sake. You’re fucking scaring us.”

“Don’t,” Liam says, very quietly. “Louis, don’t.”

“He’s not well, Liam! He's not thinking clearly, look at him.”

But Liam is looking at him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off him. “What do you mean, Niall,” he says. “What do you mean Harry’s – dead?” 

Niall feels like he’s floating somewhere above himself, unmoored from his body. “Jack,” he whispers. “It’s him. He’s got Harry.” 

“Start from the beginning, okay?” Liam steps forward again, puts his hands gently on Niall’s shoulder. “Who’s Jack? Why would Harry be with him?”

“He’s a – like me.” Niall can’t bring himself to say _vampire_. “He made me. And my parents.” 

“In Mullingar,” Liam says. “Right? He’s from Mullingar?”

His voice is calm, steadying. Niall’s starting to come back to himself, a little at a time. “He - he’s not from anywhere, really. But he’s always lived in London, as long as I’ve known him.”

“Keep talking,” Liam says. “That’s good. How does Harry know him?”

“He saw us. In a pub, last year, when I took Harry home.” 

“But you said he doesn’t live there?” Liam asks, frowning. “Why was he in Mullingar?” 

Niall stops. For some reason, he’s never asked himself that before, not really. Why had Jack been there that night in Mullingar? Why that place, that particular pub? And the second time, too, leaving the lawyers’ office. Why there? He’d thought—he doesn’t know what he’d thought. Jack’s always been like that, always felt like that. Like a minefield buried somewhere in his brain, something you forget about till a wrong step blasts your life to pieces. 

“I think,” he says slowly, something slotting together in his mind. “I think he’s been following me, maybe. Or Harry. I’m not sure.”

“Why?” Louis asks. “He’s not, like, a crazed fan or something, is he?”

Niall shakes his head. “I lived with him in London for a while, a long time ago. I was – I dunno, his protégé, I guess. He taught me how to hunt. And then I just – I left, after a while. Didn’t have the stomach for it anymore.” 

It sounds simple, put like that. _Tried it, didn’t like it, left it behind._ He doesn’t know how to say the rest of it out loud. Doesn’t know how to say that he’d been little more than a child when he left home, trailing dazedly after Jack to Dublin first, then onto London. It was the first time he’d traveled further from home than the next parish over, and the city was like nothing he could’ve ever dreamed—a bewildering maze of crowded streets, the stink and noise of it all assailing his newly heightened senses from every direction. 

Jack had taken care of everything back then, money changing hands so smoothly Niall hadn’t even realized it was happening. At night he used to lie awake sometimes, trying to reckon it up: the carriages and the passage to London, the fine clothes, the food so rich it made him ill. After his first few weeks in the city he’d had to stop counting. The sum was too high for him to reckon, let alone dream of repaying. 

He hadn’t understood, then, that Jack withheld as much as he gave—more, even. It was decades before he learned he could feed from someone without hurting them, that he could be gentle with it, using his voice and his touch to make his prey feel warm and sleepy and safe. No one had ever told him he could take only what he needed to get by, just enough till the next hunt. 

Jack liked him hungry. Sometimes he’d leave Niall locked in his room till he was white and shaking with thirst, ready to lunge at whatever poor shopgirl Jack brought him back as a treat. Niall used to lie on his pallet afterwards and sob, biting at his knuckles to stifle the sound, making the sign of the cross over his unbeating heart till his hand ached. 

“Niall?” Liam says gently, and Niall blinks hard, their worried faces coming back into focus.

“He’s not – good,” is what he says. “He's not a good person. And he’s – oh god, Liam, he’s got Harry. We’ve got to go, we’ve got to – ”

“Hey, no, calm down,” Louis says quickly, steering Niall back towards the bed. "Tell us what's happened, all right?" He glances at Liam, then asks, "Harry came home with you, then?"

Niall fills them in on what’s happened, as quickly as he can. The more he talks, the paler Liam's face gets. But the set of Louis’ jaw just gets sharper. “He’s not dead,” he says when Niall’s finished. “There’s no fucking way.”

“You don’t know Jack.” The thought fills Niall with bleak despair. “He wouldn’t – he doesn’t care that Harry’s _Harry_. It doesn’t matter that he’s – famous, or whatever.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Louis says, cutting him off. “Think about it. If this Jack bloke has seriously been biding his time for a century and a half just to fuck you over, what’s two more days? He'd wait.”

“Like in a film,” Liam says suddenly. “It's like, the villain can’t ever just, you know, do the evil thing straight out.”

“He’s got to draw it out till the good guy gets there,” Louis says, nodding. “For maximum effect, right? Evil’s always more evil with an audience.” He straightens up. “We have to call somebody. The police or - the Ghostbusters, or something."

“We can’t call the police,” Niall says instantly. “He’s got this - um, mind control thing. He can tell people to do stuff and they have to do it, they don’t have a choice.” 

"Even you?" Liam asks, wide-eyed. "Can he control you too?"

Niall wishes he could say yes. But it wouldn’t be true, not really. The way his brain gets when Jack’s around—skittish, unreliable—that isn't a compulsion; it's just cowardice. He shakes his head.

“Perfect,” Louis says unexpectedly. He jumps to his feet. “So you can go in first and distract him, yeah? And then me and Payno can sneak up behind him and take him out." He turns to Niall, his eyes bright and hard. “So,” he says. “How do you kill a vampire, then?”

*

"I'm not Catholic," is the first thing Louis says to the priest, whose name, according to a quick Google search, is Father O'Brien, originally of County Cork.

"That's perfectly all right, my child," says the priest in question, looking bemused. "If you'd like, I could give you some informational literature?"

"No, no," Louis says quickly. "He's Catholic." He pulls Niall over. "And he's Irish, too," he adds, with the air of someone producing a trump card. 

The priest's eyes widen. "Niall Horan," he says. "Of course, it's an honor, truly. My nieces won't believe it—"

"He'll sign whatever you want," Louis cuts him off, flapping his hand. "Personal visits, private concert for the nieces, you name it. We just need you to do us one tiny little favor."

Fifteen minutes later, they're walking out of the cathedral, a tightly sealed flask full of holy water in hand. It'd taken far less persuasion than Niall had expected; he'd only had to use the slightest hint of a compulsion, just a nudge really. The promise of a world-exclusive private children's birthday concert—One Direction's only hiatus performance—and a generous donation to the church’s maintenance fund had done ninety percent of the work. 

Liam waves to them from where he's idling at the kerb on a double yellow line. Cars are weaving past him, headlights slicing cleanly through the gathering darkness. "It worked?" he asks excitedly when they climb into the backseat. 

"They really will elect him president of Ireland one day, I bet," Louis tells him, sounding smug.

Liam’s backing out of his illegal parking spot. “Where to?” 

Louis fumbles for Harry’s phone. “There’s an address, here. Put it in the sat-nav, yeah?” 

He’s flushed with excitement now, he and Liam both. Like they’re going on an adventure or something, not a suicide mission. 

“Niall?” Liam glances up at him in the rearview mirror. “Is that where he’s got Harry, do you think?”

Niall can change this much, at least. He closes his eyes, then opens them again, staring out the window. “I’m sorry for this,” he says heavily. “I – I’m really sorry.” 

They both look up at him, identical expressions of confusion on their faces. Then Louis starts to frown. “No,” he says. “No—don’t you dare, Niall, don’t you fucking dare—”

“Pull over,” Niall says. “Up there, by the Tesco.” 

He’s rusty, and it shows. When the compulsion settles over him Liam jerks in shock, swerving a little into the next lane. A lorry sounds its horn angrily behind them. 

“Niall,” he chokes out, sounding scared. 

“Be quiet,” Niall says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever, in all his life, wanted so badly to crawl out of his own skin. Liam obeys instantly. He goes quiet and still, the wheel turning in his hand. Louis fights it. Niall’s not surprised, really—he’s always been of the least pliable people Niall knows. 

When Liam’s pulled over to the side of the road he shuts off the engine, staring straight ahead. Niall knows that’s his doing, that some part of him can’t bear to let either of them look him in the eye. “Leave the keys,” he says thickly. “Go inside the shop and don’t let anyone see you, yeah? Wait till I’m gone and then call for security?”

Liam gets out of the car. Niall can feel Louis’ mind struggling, writhing like a trapped animal against the constraints of the compulsion. 

But there’s no _time_. And he can’t risk the two of them coming after him. “Go,” he says again, with all the force he can muster. A second later Louis’ fumbling with his seatbelt and shoving the door open, spilling out of the car onto the pavement. He waits till they’ve disappeared from view, heads down to avoid attracting attention. Then he starts the car. 

He doesn’t need to look at Liam’s sat-nav. Niall already knows where he’s going. 

*

The street around him is bustling with activity, Londoners bundled up against the cold, hurrying home to their warm houses. Niall stands on the pavement, looking up. The house looms over him: three storeys in blackened stone. The windows are shuttered and dark.

“Mind yourself,” a woman says irritably, shouldering past him. Niall steps forward. Like a sleepwalker he climbs the stairs, his feet dragging with every step. The flask he’s tucked into the side of his boot presses hard against his ankle, metal cold against his skin. 

The front door is unlocked, as he’d known it would be. He curls his fingers around it, breathing in. The wintry air knifes through his lungs. 

It must have changed. In more than a century’s time, Niall knows the interior of the house can’t be exactly the same. Wood rots; fabric molders. But when he steps inside, the door closing softly behind him, it feels as if he’s stepped off the bustling London street and straight into the darkest recesses of his past. A thick, musty smell hangs in the air. The only light comes from the end of the hallway, where a door stands ajar. 

He moves towards it, the dense carpet beneath his feet swallowing up the sound of his steps.

Bookshelves still line the walls of Jack’s study, crammed with stiff-backed tomes. At the center of the room is a massive desk, made of dark, polished wood. A large fireplace dominates the far wall—a real one, logs crackling softly in the grate. The only other illumination comes from a single lamp set at the edge of the desk, the room’s one concession to modernity. It casts a wan circle of light across the desk’s surface, a feeble protection against the darkness. 

Jack’s writing something, his dark, glossy head bent. He looks up when Niall comes in.

“Ah,” he says, in a quiet, amused voice. “You see. I told you he would come.” 

It takes Niall a moment to realize Jack isn't talking to him. On the settee near the fireplace, there's a huddled shape, so still he’d taken it at first for part of the room’s furniture. 

“Come now, Harry,” Jack says, putting down his pen. “Say hello to our guest.” 

The shape stirs, shadows resolving themselves slowly into a human form. Harry unfolds his long limbs and sits up, the heavy blanket round his shoulders slipping down onto the settee. He’s dressed in the same clothes he’d left Niall’s house in: dark, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, spattered with dried blood. His head is bowed, locks of lank, greasy hair falling like a curtain round his face. 

Jack makes a sound in his throat. Jerkily, Harry lifts his chin, his gaze locking onto Niall’s. 

“Hello,” he says in a toneless voice. There’s nothing at all in his expression—no fear, no spark of recognition. 

Niall doesn’t move towards him. He feels suddenly afraid of him, this vacant thing wearing Harry's face. 

“What’ve you done to him? What’s wrong with him?”

“A simple compulsion," Jack says. “He was quite hysterical at first, I'm afraid. Not nearly as pliant as I’d hoped.”

He raises a hand and makes a quick gesture. Instantly, Harry’s face transforms, the masklike expression slipping into a look of pure terror. He sucks in a sudden, shuddering breath, the sound shockingly loud in the quiet of the study. “Niall,” he gasps, lurching forward in his seat. "Niall, I'm sorry, I—please, _please_ —”

"Enough." Jack's tone is mild, but at the sound of his voice Harry jerks back again, slumping against the side of the divan like a puppet whose strings have been cut. "He needs a firm hand if he's to be tolerable company. The crying gets rather tedious."

Tears prick at Niall’s eyes. “I’m here now,” he says, to Harry as much as to Jack. “I’m here. What do you want, Jack?”

“Not very polite of you," Jack says. "I promised Harry I’d have you both round for dinner, didn't I? And you know I am a man of my word.” He pushes back his chair, rising. “Perhaps you and I can discuss our business over the meal, like old friends. Harry?” 

Without a word, Harry gets to his feet and walks from the room. His movements are stiff and slightly awkward, but there’s none of his usual clumsiness in his gait. There’s nothing of Harry in him at all. 

“After you,” Jack says, smiling at Niall.

*

The corridors of the house in London are too close, the walls seeming to lean towards each other, pressing ever nearer. Niall used to keep his eyes half-shut as he walked the length of them, a hand trailing along the wall to steady himself. He used to pretend he was walking not down a passageway but through a dark, crowded woods. In a moment’s time—not long now, not long—the trees would surely break, giving way at last to the wide green fields of Mullingar, to the sky stretching out above them: vast, endless.

This time, though, he doesn’t close his eyes. He walks straight-backed down the narrow passageway. His skin prickles with fear.

There’s only one place set at the dining room table, at the far end of the long, dark table. Jack settles himself at the head of the table. He gestures for Niall to sit at his right. A moment later Harry reappears, carrying a tray laden with food and wine. He sets it down on the table, then stands beside the place that’s been set for him, his face blank.

“Sit, Harry. Eat.” Jack reaches for the decanter of wine, pouring himself and Niall each a generous glass.

Niall doesn’t touch it. “Why did you bring him here?” he says immediately. 

“He came freely,” Jack says. “Asking for my help. Begging. He’d do anything, he told me, anything at all. Whatever it took to stop you going.”

A wave of nausea. He’d thought he was protecting Harry. He’d thought by leaving he was keeping him safe. 

“Eat, my dear,” Jack says to Harry, chidingly. “Or you’ll be of little use to me later.” 

Niall watches Harry pick up his knife and fork, sawing at the bloody steak in front of him. He thinks, dumbly, that Harry hates red meat, would never touch it on his own. As if that’s the part of this situation that’s truly horrifying. 

“He’s a bit weak, I’m afraid,” Jack says, picking up his glass. “I had every intention of waiting, but my self-control isn’t what it used to be. I couldn’t resist having a taste.” 

A loud clatter startles them both. Harry's dropped his cutlery onto his plate, his face gone even whiter than before. 

“Manners, Harry,” Jack says sharply. “Apologize to our guest.”

“Sorry," Harry whispers, staring down at his plate. “’M sorry.” After a beat he picks up his utensils again. His hands are trembling. 

Niall looks away. He takes the thought of Harry here alone—terrified, in pain—and locks it away somewhere deep inside himself. He can’t let it overwhelm him; not here, not yet. Beneath the table his hands clench into fists, nails biting into his palms. 

“Why,” he says, his voice terse. “Why him, Jack?” 

“Wrong question,” Jack says pleasantly. “Try again, Niall.”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, you – you didn’t come after me. You let me go.”

Jack tilts his head. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch the coldness in his eyes. There’s nothing human in that expression, only something ancient and patient, something bred and nurtured in a darkness Niall’s never understood. 

“Did I?” he says. 

All that time. All those years—decades upon decades, and all the time Jack’s been waiting for him, right here where Niall had left him. He’d never been free, not really. He’d only been given a longer leash. The realization doesn’t feel like a revelation, not really. It feels like a cancer that’s been growing inside him all this time, metastasizing, taking on this final, fatal shape.

“I don’t understand,” Niall says hoarsely. “You don’t need me, Jack, you never have.” 

“Perhaps not,” Jack says. “But you are mine nonetheless.”

“You should have killed me.” The words spill out of him in a torrent, impossible to keep back. “I wish you’d killed me and been done with it—why, Jack? Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Perhaps I was lonely.”

“Don’t lie.” Niall’s fist slams down on the table, hard enough to rattle the plates. He sees a flash of fear in Harry’s eyes, stronger than the compulsion. “Don’t lie to me!”

“Or perhaps it was how prettily you begged,” Jack says. “Do you remember, Niall? How you pleaded with me to spare your life. To spare your family.” He lifts his glass, studying Niall over the rim of it. “Such a dirty, lousey thing you were,” he says reflectively. “But lovely, in your way. Somehow untouched, as if nothing and no one had done you harm.” 

“And you wanted to be the first.” Niall’s head aches, a dull throb of pain concentrated in his temples. “Is that it?”

Jack’s smile widens, bland and easy. “Do you know,” he says. “I really can’t recall.”

Niall’s nineteen again, stammering in a language he knew once but has since forgotten. Nineteen and struggling, begging. For his life. For his mother’s. 

“But I think,” Jack continues, his voice low and silky, “I think perhaps I saw something in you, Niall. Something I recognized. Is that what you’d like to hear, my dear? That I chose you—that I _knew_ you?”

“No,” Niall whispers, shaking his head. “I’m not – I’m not like you. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I tried not to hurt them.” 

He hadn’t always succeeded. He knows that, though he hasn’t let himself think of it in a very long time. Sometimes the compulsion would slip, or the bloodlust would take over, clouding his mind. Sometimes they were terrified, struggling in his arms, weeping or praying, and he fed from them anyway, the way he had from Harry: out of control, past caring. 

“Very noble of you,” Jack says. “But you know what you really are, Niall. I know what you are.” 

He's right, in a way. It was Jack who taught him to hunt. To choose his prey, the young and the weak: shopgirls and street urchins and whores. To lure them in, making them trust him. He’d done as he was told. He had tried so hard to understand the rules, believing that if he could only learn them, only follow them, he might control the thing within him. 

He puts a hand to his temple, wincing. Somewhere a woman’s screaming, screaming. 

“How exquisitely you suffer,” Jack says, watching him. “I’d almost forgotten, the way your mind eats away at itself. But you needn’t suffer anymore, my dear. You needn’t fight it.” 

Niall’s head’s gone funny again, his vision blurring at the edges. It doesn't take much effort to make his voice shake a little, like he's overcome by feeling. “Can you – can you make it stop?”

Jack looks pleased. “Of course I can,” he says softly. “But you must do something for me, first.”

Niall closes his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “I don’t – I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

There’s a scraping sound. Harry’s pushing back his chair, rising in response to some wordless command. He comes to stand between them.

“Down,” Jack says, and Harry slides silently to his knees, his face upturned. Niall watches Jack slides his fingers through Harry’s hair. He tugs his head sharply to the right, exposing the pale line of his throat. There’s a mark there—Niall’s mark. Jack’s. 

Jack touches it now with two fingertips, rubbing gently. Harry shivers.

“So responsive,” Jack murmurs. “You’ve prepared him well for me, Niall. A worthy gift, for a long-delayed homecoming.”

Niall swallows. He says, with effort, “Thank you, sir.”

The _sir_ pleases Jack, as he'd known it would. Niall can tell from the way his fingers still for a moment on Harry's throat, before resuming their slow, gentle caress.

“Good,” he says. “That’s very good, Niall. I can’t let you keep the boy, I’m afraid, but I won’t be stingy. Shall we share him now, as a token of our renewed friendship?”

Niall doesn't trust himself to respond. It's too important to get this right. Instead he leans forward in his chair. He touches Harry’s jaw with his fingertips, turning his face towards him. He feels the moment the compulsion lifts. Harry’s eyes go wide with terror. His heart’s racing, pulse beating frantically in his throat. Niall puts a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him close. He can't comfort him, as much as he'd like to. He has to play this game to its end.

“Niall,” Harry says, his voice small and choked. His eyes dart to Jack. 

"Look at me, petal," Niall says softly. “Will you be good for me?”

"I don't want to die,” Harry whispers, his face very white. "Please, Niall, let me go. I won't tell anyone about him, I won’t—”

“Be good for me,” Niall says again, and something in his voice makes Harry fall silent. “One last time. Will you do that for me?”

Harry closes his eyes. A tear slides down his cheek. Slowly, he nods. 

“Remarkable,” Jack says, watching them. “Without even a compulsion.”

Niall touches Harry’s throat then, a thumb sliding over his pulse point. His fangs are descending, lengthening in anticipation. He tilts Harry’s chin back for better access. 

Harry sobs, once. Niall leans closer. His mouth brushes against Harry’s ear. 

"Run,” he whispers, lacing the word with the strongest compulsion he’s ever laid. 

Things happen very quickly. Niall’s shoving Harry to the side, lunging for Jack with his fangs bared. The force of it knocks Jack’s chair backwards, sending them both toppling to the ground beside the fire. Surprise gives him only the briefest advantage; then Jack’s snarling and rolling over him, his body a heavy, crushing weight on Niall’s.

The flask. Niall’s fumbling for it, fingers curling around it as he yanks it free of his boot. 

It’s knocked out of his hand, sent skittering across the floor towards the fireplace. Niall manages to roll onto his belly, crawling towards it. But Jack’s on him again, landing a blow to the back of his head that makes Niall’s vision go briefly dark. 

He comes back to himself a second later. Jack’s rolled him halfway onto his back. He’s got Niall by the throat, pinned to the ground. In his other hand he’s holding the flask. His face is terrifying, the bland smile gone, replaced by naked fury. 

“Holy water?” he snarls. “Tell me, Niall have you ever seen a vampire destroyed by holy water?”

His grip on Niall’s throat tightens, applying a crushing pressure. Niall chokes, thrashes. 

“I have,” Jack says. “Many, many centuries ago. It eats through the flesh like acid. The body dissolves completely, though they say the pain lasts until the very end. Will you scream, Niall? I would so like to hear you _scream_.”

Niall claws at the hand on his windpipe, though he knows already that it’s no use. He’s going to die here, at Jack’s hand: a true death this time, the one that should have been his two centuries ago, in the dark woods of Mullingar. Jack’s fumbling with the screw-top of the flask now, trying to work it open. 

He closes his eyes, so that the last thing he sees isn’t Jack’s snarling face, his vicious fangs. He thinks of home. Of Harry, too—not as he was a moment ago, terrified and sobbing, but the way Niall knows him best: flirting, laughing. Meeting Niall’s eyes across a crowded room, his face lit up with joy. _I love him,_ he thinks, and it’s the best thought he has, the purest, strongest thing he knows. 

And then, suddenly—a whoosh of air against his face, something arcing close. A sickening crunch, and the grip on his throat loosens, the weight on top of him shifting. It takes his brain a moment to process what he’s seeing: Harry standing over them, an iron poker gripped tightly in his hands. The blow’s caught Jack’s shoulder, sent him staggering. Harry raises it again. This time he’s holding it at an awkward angle and Niall sees instantly what he’s trying to do—to drive it through Jack’s heart. 

“No,” he screams, “no, Harry, _run_ ,” but the compulsion seems to have no effect. Jack’s on his feet, lunging for Harry. He shoves him backwards, against the wall, sinking his fangs into Harry’s flesh. Harry screams. The poker slips from his nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. He screams again, clawing uselessly at Jack’s shoulders, trying to push him away. There’s blood everywhere, all over his face and throat. 

Niall pulls himself to his feet on the edge of the table. He grasps blindly for the steak knife by Harry’s plate, then launches himself headfirst at Jack, colliding with him, both of them going down. He’s on top of Jack, the knife grasped in his fist, blade glinting silver in the light.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jack spits, twisting. “You’re weak, Niall, and you’re _mine_ —”

But whatever else Niall is—whatever else Jack thinks he is—he’ll never know. He drives the blade through Jack’s heart.

Jack makes a low, guttural sound. He stills, his eyes bulging in shock. 

Niall doesn’t wait to see what happens next. He’s already scrambling to retrieve the flask, a few meters away. He unscrews the top, his hands shaking, and upends it over the still-twitching body.

*

“999. Please state your emergency.” 

Niall’s hunched over Harry’s body, cradling his head in his lap. Harry’s eyes are closed, his face twisted into a grimace of pain. The phone lies on the ground next to him, the woman’s voice tinny and unreal sounding over the speakerphone. 

“There’s been an attack,” he says hoarsely. “Someone’s hurt, badly.”

He rattles off the address, then rings off before the operator can ask any questions. Harry seems to be drifting in and out of consciousness—blood loss and shock, Niall thinks. He strokes Harry’s sweat-matted hair, making soft, soothing noises. 

Harry stirs in his lap, restless, whimpering. "Hurts," he croaks out, eyes fluttering open. His pupils are huge and dark, only a thin ring of green showing round the edges. 

“Shh, I know,” Niall murmurs. “I know, petal, I know.”

Harry's gaze focuses for a moment. His mouth works, no sound coming out. "Don't," he manages at last, a note of terror in his voice. "Don't – ”

It breaks Niall’s heart. “I won’t hurt you,” he says, tears threatening to choke him. “I’ll go, soon as they’re here. I’m sorry, I didn’t—I never meant to drag you into this. I never meant to hurt you.” 

“No,” Harry croaks, and starts coughing. He shuts his eyes again. 

“Shh, don’t talk.” Niall fumbles for his phone again, dialing the number blindly.

Louis picks up on the first ring. “You—” 

“I know you’re angry,” Niall cuts him off. “I know you’re furious with me, but Harry’s hurt, he needs you, and I can’t stay. I can’t be here.”

“We’re almost there,” Louis says immediately. “Liam remembered the address from Harry’s phone and we called for a car. It took ages, but we’re nearly there, Niall, we’re—give us five minutes, all right?”

*

He’s waiting in the hall when they burst through the door. Harry’s unconscious in the dining room, Niall’s jumper serving as a makeshift pillow. 

“Where is he,” Liam says, his eyes wild. He’s clutching what looks like a tree branch in his hand, looking ready to stake someone through the heart with it. “Where’s the vampire bloke, where—”

“Gone,” Niall says. “Harry’s through there, will you go sit with him? The ambulance’ll be here soon.”

Liam disappears into the dining room. Niall’s stumbling towards the front door when Louis’ voice stops him. 

“Where’re you going?” 

“Just need some air,” Niall lies. 

“I’ll come with you, then,” Louis says. “I’ll wait with you and you can tell me what happened.”

“No,” Niall snaps, turning, his voice so sharp Louis recoils. “I just – I’m fine, Lou, I just need a minute, okay? Can I just have a minute?”

Louis frowns. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “I know exactly what you’re about to do, Niall Horan, and I can tell you right now that you’re making a huge fucking mistake. When he wakes up—”

“I can’t be here.” Niall turns to look at him. “Trust me, Louis. He won’t—he won’t want me there when he wakes up.” 

“You’re wrong,” Louis says, frustrated. “I don’t know why you two can’t bloody _talk_ about this. Tell him what you told us, yeah? Harry will understand, Niall, if you give him a chance.”

“No,” Niall says, shaking his head, moving towards the door. “I—I can’t, Louis. I can’t. It’s what’s best, okay? I’m doing what’s best for him.”

“Making decisions for him again, I see, ” Louis says nastily. “That’s great, Niall, really great. I can’t think of a _single time_ in recent memory when somebody trying to control somebody else’s life fucked anything up.”

Niall stops, his hand on the door. He looks back at Louis.

“I’m not him,” he says, his voice heavy. “I’m not—I’m not trying to control Harry, I swear. But I can’t be here when he wakes up. I _can’t,_ Louis.” 

Louis gives him a searching look. Finally, he says, “And what am I supposed to tell him?”

“I don’t know,” Niall says. “Tell him—tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him and I’m sorry.”

“Anything else?” Louis says, an eyebrow quirked. “Like a forwarding address, maybe?”

Niall shakes his head. He doesn’t wait for a response, just opens the front door and stumbles out into the night. Louis doesn’t follow.

Sirens wail in the distance. Two blocks from Jack’s house he finds Louis’ car, miraculously not booted. He stands on the sidewalk next to it, taking his phone out of his pocket. He types in Harry’s name.

_youre safe now I promise . hes never going to hurt you again ._

Then he sets the phone down on the pavement. He brings the heel of his boot down on it hard, shattering the screen. An old woman’s staring at him from across the street, holding her dog’s lead loosely in one hand. She watches as he kicks the destroyed phone into a storm sewer. 

“Evening,” he says to her politely, before getting into Louis’ car. He’s long since missed his flight, but there’ll always be another plane, bound for some other elsewhere. It doesn’t much matter where it’s going, as long as it’ll take him away from here.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise -- this journey's almost over. i've split this final chapter into two chunks, the second of which is en route to my beta and will be posted around the same time tomorrow night. 
> 
> a huge thanks to the incredible [ferryboatpeak](http://www.ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com) for turning around this draft veryyyy quickly, and also for humoring me through countless panicky "IT'S NOT QUITE DONE HAHA! JUST FIVE MORE MINUTES!" texts over the past couple weeks (narrator voice: it was not five minutes). I will do a real thank-you to all the lovely, lovely people who have held my hand through writing this entire fic tomorrow, when I post the final installment.
> 
> here, have some of harry suffering. he's gonna suffer a lot more tomorrow, but I promise he's also gonna be happy.

He’s swimming in the ocean, waves lapping gently round his bare shoulders. It’s not Los Angeles—somewhere tropical, he thinks, judging by the perfect azure blue of the water. The sun beats hot against the back of his neck, drenching the afternoon in light. The water is so pristine he can see all the way to the bottom, where dark, fernlike plants grow up out of the white sand, their fronds swaying gently in the current. Brightly colored fish dart around his legs, an occasional flash of blue striped with yellow, orange with white. He can see whole schools of them further down, skimming above the ocean floor. 

He wants a closer look. Sucking in a deep breath, he plunges his head beneath the sparkling surface of the water. He kicks out, down, fighting the gentle drag of the tide. The world’s gone quiet around him, save for a soft, persistent beeping, like a wristwatch held to his ear. 

The ocean floor is a long way down, farther than it looked from the surface. He kicks harder. A cloud must drift across the sun, or perhaps it’s only that he’s far enough down now, far enough from the light, that the water’s growing darker and colder around him. He could turn back, he knows, but for some reason he doesn’t—just pushes himself harder, conscious of the ache in his shoulders and calves, of the burn in his lungs. The salt stings his eyes, blurring his vision. 

Something brushes past him in the water, unseen. He jerks away from it, hard, but he can’t see anything; he’s alone now, the fish flitting away, scattering before him. When he tries to change course, to reorient himself back towards the surface of the water, his limbs won’t seem to cooperate. 

Panic grips him. He’s not swimming anymore, but sinking, his lungs burning, starved for air. Soft, feathery fronds brush against his bare skin. They encircle his ankles, his wrists as he falls, drawing him down, down, into the dark green. The beeping in his ear persists. A tendril of something wet and slimy winds its way round his throat and begins slowly to tighten. 

_Fight it,_ his mind screams. _Why won’t you fight it, why won’t you fight?_

But he can’t, or he doesn’t. His head’s full of static: a wireless set tuned to the wrong frequency, only garbled snatches of sound coming through. His limbs are leaden weights, dragging him deeper. The cold has begun to seep slowly in through his skin, extinguishing all warmth, all light, and with it the last fragments of conscious thought. There’s a name on the tip of his tongue, unspoken: a name, a question. A plea. 

His eyes are wide open still, staring. But there’s nothing left to see, nothing to feel. There’s only that crushing darkness, pressing in all around him, and a loneliness so vast and desolate he knows it must be death. 

No one’s coming for him. Not this time. 

Harry’s lips part. He breathes in, finally, lungs filling with dark water. Pain sears through his throat and chest, white-hot and blazingly bright. 

“Look,” says a voice, very near him. “I think he’s waking up.”

*

“Mr. Styles?” 

Harry blinks, and the dreary strip of London skyline he’s been staring at through his window swims slowly back into focus. Misty grey towers take on solid form again, stark outlines against the dull pewter of the sky. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been staring. His mum and Gemma left hours ago to get some rest, and he’s asked the nurse to tell anyone who stops by—Louis and Liam mainly, but Nick, too—that he’s sleeping and isn’t to be disturbed. He can’t have the talks that need having here in this sterile environment, with nurses bustling in and out at all hours. If he’s going to fall apart, Harry would rather do it without an audience. 

“Mr. Styles,” the voice says again, louder this time, and then, “Harry?”

He turns his head towards the door. A woman stands on the threshold, looking at him. She’s holding a small notepad in one hand, a visitor’s badge dangling from a cord around her neck.

His first thought is that she’s a reporter who’s snuck past the security guards at the end of the hall. His second thought—not even a thought really, more like a brief, fleeting impression—is that he knows her, that he’s known her for a long time, all his life maybe.

Harry presses his fingertips to his temple, frowning. Then, realizing that she’s still waiting for a response, he fumbles in the blankets for the mobile phone in his lap. His fingers are slow and clumsy still as he opens the text-to-voice app. It takes him a moment to type out the words. 

A woman’s voice, tinny and robotic, issues forth from his speakers. _Who are you?_

“Detective-Inspector Mehta, Scotland Yard. I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

_I already spoke with the police._

A pair of detectives had taken a statement from him the previous evening, not long after he’d regained consciousness. Pumped full of painkillers, numb with grief and shock, he’d barely been able to string together a coherent thought, much less a believable explanation for the condition in which he’d been found. _I don’t remember,_ he’d typed out again and again, as the detectives’ sympathy morphed gradually into skepticism, and then, finally, irritation. 

He’s glad they’ve put him on vocal rest for another few days. It means he doesn’t have to look people in the eye if he doesn’t want to—not his mum, tearful and bewildered, or the detectives whose questions he won’t answer, or Louis and Liam, who keep trying and failing to get him alone. Instead he can stare down at the screen of his mobile, brow furrowed in concentration as he types out his responses. It feels, sometimes, that if he can only act the part well enough, convincingly enough, the words he keeps typing might somehow become truth. _I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry. I can’t remember a thing._

“I’ve read the statement,” the detective says. “As of this morning, however, your case has been transferred to me, and I have some questions of a different nature. May I?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer, just seats herself in the chair Anne had drawn up to his bedside. Up close Harry can see that she’s older than he’d first thought: mid-fifties at a guess, her short-cropped dark hair greying at the temples. Her clothes are impeccably neat but nondescript, dark slacks and a blazer open to reveal a crisp white button-down.

Harry’s skin prickles. There it is again: that strange spark of recognition, even though he feels utterly sure that he’s never seen her before in his life. And that’s odd too, isn’t it—that iron certainty, when he’s seen and forgotten more faces than he could ever count. 

_I can’t help you. I don’t remember,_ he types out, and then, because he can’t help himself, _Do I know you?_

Her gaze on him is cool but not cold—more appraising, really. “Do you?”

He ducks his head to conceal a flash of irritation. _I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. You remind me of someone._

“Who?” 

Something flickers at the edge of his vision. Harry turns his head too fast, looking for it, and winces when the stitches at his throat pull tight. He feels jumpy suddenly, uneasy. He reaches for his mobile again. _I don’t know. Never mind._

“Very well,” she says. “Mr. Styles, I would like to examine the wound, if I may.” 

Harry stills. He can’t think of a good reason to refuse her, though, so he nods, slipping a hand up to feel for the edges of the bandage. He tugs at it gently, wincing a little as the tape peels free. The wound is fresh still, and ugly, he knows, torn flesh knitted back together with neat black stitches. 

Mehta leans closer, studying it for a long moment. Then she sits back, apparently satisfied. 

“Thank you,” she says. “Mr. Styles, what do you know about the house in which you were found?”

_Nothing._

“I know a great deal about that house,” Mehta says. “It has been of great interest to me for some time now, as it happens. It is a very old home, perhaps one of the oldest continuously inhabited structures in London. Built after the Great Fire, but not long after.”

Her gaze is fixed on him, unwavering. Despite years of media training, Harry’s finding it difficult to keep his face blank. 

“Curiously enough, though, there’s no record of it changing hands in all that time. No deeds of inheritance or sale. No paper trail whatsoever. Legally speaking, it seems to belong to no one.”

Harry types out, slowly: _What does this have to do with me?_

“That’s what I would like to know,” Mehta says. “That is what I am very, very curious about. Mr. Styles, how did you come to find yourself in that particular house?”

_I told you I don’t remember._

“What is the last thing you do remember?

_I went to a party. I left. I woke up here._

“A going-away party, was it not?” she says. “For a friend of yours. Niall Horan.” 

Harry hesitates for the barest second. He nods.

It’s the first time anyone’s mentioned Niall. The detectives who had visited him yesterday hadn’t brought him up once—they had said, only, that a 999 call had been placed from Harry’s mobile, which the nurses had brought in to him when he woke up. The first thing he had done was delete all of Nick’s frantic messages, and then, without allowing himself to think, to feel anything—Niall’s last, cryptic text. 

“You left the party alone?” 

Another nod.

“Tell me the truth, Mr. Styles.” 

_I am._

“No,” she says. “But you will. Tell me what happened that evening, Mr. Styles, and this time do not lie to me. Did you or did you not leave the party in Mr. Horan’s company?”

Her voice is quiet but authoritative, threaded with steel. And Harry feels it, then—a gentle nudging at the edges of his mind. An impulse to speak, growing strong by the second, as if the words were being drawn up out of him, drawn towards the surface. 

His eyes widen. 

She must see it, the moment when he puts two and two together. Harry twists violently away, fingers scrabbling for the call button next to his bed, but the detective’s reflexes are lightning-quick. Her fingers close around his wrist in an iron grip, yanking him back onto the bed. When he opens his mouth to scream she slaps her other hand over his mouth, stifling the sound. 

Panic wipes his mind blank. He thrashes against her grip, clawing desperately at her arms, her hands, any part of her he can reach. He won’t go back. He won’t let them take him again. He’ll die before he lets that happen, he’ll die, he’ll _die_ —

“Harry, stop.”

Everything stills. 

Or his body does, at least. His mind races on, his thoughts a confused, jumbled mess, but his muscles lock in place. He’s paralyzed. He can’t even turn his head to look at her; all he can do is stare up at the ceiling, frozen, as memories well up from some dark place within him, oozing into waking life. Jack ordering him forward. To his knees. Fingers at his jaw, tilting his face up to expose his throat. That smile, cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins. 

Tears fill his eyes. Unable to brush them away, he can only lie there, humiliatingly still, as they slip down the side of his face, dampening his hair.

“You will lie still,” Detective Mehta says, taking her hand away from his mouth. “You will not scream. I do not wish you to harm yourself. Your body has already been through a tremendous ordeal.”

 _Please,_ Harry thinks, his throat tight. _Please, no._

“When I saw that address on my colleagues’ report, I knew,” she says. “And when I read their briefing, I suspected that you remembered a good deal more about what happened than you were letting on.” She sighs. “If that is true, then I am sorry, Harry. I am truly sorry. I will not ask you to trust me, only to listen. You thought you recognized me, when you saw me. Do you know what I am?”

Harry feels the compulsion slacken, ever so slightly. Enough that he can croak out a single word: “Vampire.”

“Yes,” she says. “You do not know me. But you have known others like me. Including the man who goes by the name of Jack Healy.” 

Harry doesn’t make a sound, just swallows.

“I have no wish you hurt you,” she says. “Or to compel you further. It is Healy I am interested in, not you. I ask you—I appeal to you, Mr. Styles—to answer my questions truthfully, no matter how difficult the answers might be. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harry manages. 

“I am going to release you now. I will not touch you, but if you attempt to harm me or to do further damage to yourself, I will not hesitate to stop you.” 

Feeling floods back into his body, his muscles unclenching all at once. Harry’s fingers curl instinctively into fists, nails biting into the meat of his palms. He forces them to relax again, pressing his hands flat against the sheets. 

“You’re not with the police, are you,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

“I am, though the scope of my duties occasionally extends beyond normal police work. I monitor the activities of our kind. Vampires, that is.”

“There are more of you?” Harry had thought that Niall and his family were the only ones. And Jack, too. 

“Oh, yes,” she says. “There are more than you might think, in a large city like London especially, although we are mostly an itinerant people. We do not tend to stay in one place for very long.” 

“Niall never said.” 

“You knew, then. What Mr. Horan was.” 

When Harry nods, the detective’s expression becomes grave. “I realize this must be very difficult for you,” she says. “I understand you considered him a close friend.”

Past tense. Harry wonders if it’ll ever stop feeling like a slap across the face, the realization that Niall’s gone. That he isn’t coming back, not this time. 

“Best friend,” he says. “He was my best friend.” 

“I am sorry, Mr. Styles,” she says. “I am sorry, too, that I was unable to aid you. My role is—complicated. I am not always able to intervene in time, or sometimes at all. But if you can tell me what you remember of that night, it may help me stop what happened to you from happening to someone else.” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, that’s not—it’s over. He’s dead.” 

“I am afraid not. A source at Heathrow has confirmed that he was seen boarding a plane bound shortly after leaving the scene of the attack. His name does not appear on any of the flight manifests, but I have reviewed the security footage and I believe that he did, in fact, leave London. We are tracking him now.” 

Harry sits up straighter, grasping at the sheets. “No,” he breathes. “No, I saw it. I saw him die.” 

“You suffered a traumatic experience,” Mehta says gently. “You were in shock when they brought you in. I don’t mean to alarm you, Mr. Styles, as I do not believe you are in danger at the present moment. But I am afraid that Mr. Horan is still very much alive.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “He—what?”

“There are certain security measures we can take,” Mehta says. “But I must be frank with you, Mr. Styles, if Horan has identified you as a victim, if there is some sort of personal vendetta at play, we will need to proceed with extreme caution. I have been tracking Jack Healy, the creature who taught Horan everything he knows, for many decades now, and his pattern is consistent. He is methodical and cunning—a true sociopath. When he has chosen a victim he will stalk them, sometimes for years at a time, earning their trust, waiting for his moment to strike.” 

“You— _no_ ,” Harry says. “You’ve got it wrong, you’ve got it all wrong.” 

“It appears Horan was attempting to replicate the same pattern,” Mehta says. “I do not know if he chose you first and arranged to keep you near him, or if it was only recently that he decided you would make a fitting target. Healy and Horan have not been in regular contact for some time now, but it is possible that what happened a few days ago was an effort to win his way back into Healy’s good graces. I believe that you yourself were—and I am sorry to put it so bluntly—an offering of sorts. A proof of good faith.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry blurts out, so agitated he can hardly sit still. “Christ, no, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. You’re not even holding onto the right stick, you—you’ve thrown the right stick away and got, like, some other stick—a horrible stick, you’ve got the wrong _forest_ even—”

“Calm down,” Mehta says in a warning voice. She puts a hand on his arm, but Harry wrenches it away. 

“Niall saved me,” he says. “He saved my life. Those things you said, he’s not like that. He’d never hurt me, not on purpose. He hated Jack.”

“What do you mean, he saved you?” 

“He came for me,” Harry says. “Jack wanted him to do it—what you said. He wanted him to kill me. But Niall fought him. He killed him, and he burned up the body. I saw it.” 

“Jack Healy is dead?” Mehta says sharply. “You saw it? With your own eyes?”

His memories of that day are hazy, as if someone’s wrapped his thoughts in cotton wool. He remembers it only in horrible, disconnected fragments, moments of sheer screaming terror interspersed with long blank stretches of static. But he sees it again: Niall’s white face across the dark table, staring at Jack. That awful look in his eyes—not fear, only blankess, as if he’d gone to some place beyond terror. His voice in Harry’s ear, breath sour with fear.  
_Look at me, petal. Be good for me, one last time._

He had trusted him, even then. Even when it had seemed as though it was all over, the terror and the struggle—when he had accepted, in those final moments, that he would never walk out of that room alive. He hadn’t blamed Niall. He had felt only an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief, at the thought that it would be Niall and not Jack who took him, easing him gently over the threshold into death. 

_Run._

The rest comes to him in fragments: his hands clawing at Jack’s back, trying to drag him off. A searing pain, flesh tearing at his throat. Someone screaming; himself, maybe. And then, a moment later: a glint of silver in the flickering light. Niall raising the knife over his head and driving it home.

A shudder runs through him. “Yes,” he says. “I saw it. I saw him die.” 

She looks at him for a long moment, her gaze piercing. 

“Niall saved me,” he says again. “You’re wrong about him. He came for me, and he fought Jack, and he saved my life. Put that in your file.”

Mehta says, slowly, “It’s possible I was mistaken.”

“He’s a good person,” Harry says. “He’s the best person I’ve ever known. Leave him out of this. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”

“You are not at fault,” Mehta says. “You were a victim, Harry. And if what you say is true, then I will not concern myself further with Mr. Horan. I will consider the case closed.” 

“Good.” Harry closes his eyes. He’s exhausted suddenly, a weariness that feels bone-deep.

“I’ll leave my mobile number with you,” Mehta says, her pen scratching at the notepad. Harry opens his eyes and watches as she tears off the top sheet of paper and folds it neatly, pressing it into his hand. “Should you need to reach me, for any reason. And I’ll speak to your medical team and a few of the journalists downstairs, on my way out. I’m afraid there’s no keeping this entirely under wraps, given the level of attention your case has already received. But we’ll tell them it was an animal attack. A feral dog, which was trapped by animal control shortly afterwards. There’s no ongoing threat to the public.”

“And you’ll make them believe it,” Harry says. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it. You’ll compel them.”

“I’m afraid that will be necessary, yes. To ensure that there are no awkward questions.” Mehta stands, as if to leave, and then stops, her hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. “Mr. Styles, please do not take this the wrong way—I have no intention of compelling you against your will. But if you would like—I can make you believe it, too. If that would be easier.” 

He looks blankly at her. For a moment he lets himself imagine it: his mind wiped clean, a blank slate again. Nothing of the nightmares. Nothing of Niall leaving, of Jack’s hands on him. Why stop there? Why not go further back, even—to that last night, when he’d lain awake in the dark watching Niall sleep, preparing himself to perform that last, irrevocable act. He hears Jack’s voice in his ear again, soft and persuasive: _We both know how he is, Harry, don’t we? Too stubborn for his own good. Sometimes all he needs is one little push._

Harry turns his head away. He stares out of the window, at the dull stretch of the skyline: flat and grey, a world bled dry of color. 

“Thank you, but no,” he says. “I don’t think it would.”

*

A week after he’s released from the hospital, Harry moves back to LA.

It had only taken him a few days at home to realize that it would be impossible, staying in London. It’s not just the bad associations, either, the way his stomach lurches violently when a fan comes too close in the street, touching his arm, or the fact that there’s a whole section of London he avoids now, even if it takes him ages to drive around. 

No. It’s the fact that he keeps tossing the awful Tesco brand biscuits into his trolley without thinking, because Niall likes them with his tea. It’s the hour he spends one afternoon sitting in his car with his sunglasses on, watching a nice family move into the house where Niall used to live. 

It’s the dreams he can’t stop having—not the nightmares, but the ones that feel even worse. Dreams where Niall’s with him backstage at a venue, doing silly accents to make him laugh. A dream where they’re Bond girls together, improbably, and Niall looks fetching in a green evening gown. Dreams where Niall is lying curled up in bed beside him, his foot hooked round Harry’s ankle, and outside it’s raining but inside it’s warm, and they’ve got nowhere in the world to be. 

He knows LA’s not a magic bullet. It won’t change the way he feels sometimes, like he’s watching his life unfold from somewhere outside his own body. Like he can see what’s happening around him, to him, but he can’t touch it, can’t feel it the way he used to. In his bleaker moments, he wonders if Jack took something else instead of his blood, whatever it was that made him _Harry Styles_. Charisma, or magnetism, the thing he used to be able to switch on without even trying. The x-factor. 

His mum cries for ages when he tells her he’s going, but for the first time he can remember, he’s unswayed by her tears. Nick’s not thrilled about the idea either, but he hugs Harry tightly for a long minute, then tells him in no uncertain terms that he’ll reveal all of Harry’s most embarrassing stories on radio if Harry doesn’t return his calls regularly. 

He waits to email Louis and Liam until he’s already halfway over the Atlantic, which makes it easier to ignore the increasingly exasperated string of texts he gets from Louis in response. Harry stills feels guilty they’d been dragged into all of this in the first place—just not, it turns out, guilty enough to sit down and let Louis tell him off the way he probably wants to. 

Harry knows he deserves to be yelled at. Probably he could write Louis’s tirade for him, about how selfish he’s been, how childish and stupid. About how much he’s fucked with Niall’s head, done things to him Harry doesn’t expect Niall—or Louis even—to ever forgive him for. He knows all that. He’s said it to himself a hundred times over, lying in bed at night staring up at the ceiling, playing it all over in his head. 

He’s a coward and he knows it. He doesn’t need to hear Louis say it to know it’s true. 

*

It’s sunny every day in LA, a stark change from the London gloom. Harry, as he'd feared, doesn't feel the slightest bit different. 

Here he can keep himself busy, at least. He has his PA fill his social calendar with events every night: concerts, gallery openings, fashion shows. He takes selfies with fans all over the city, smiling so wide in the photos it feels like his face will crack in half, trying to ignore the way they stare first at the bandage and then, when it’s come off, at the ugly, puckered scar on his throat. He works out with his trainer for hours at a time, then he goes home and climbs on the bike in his private gym and keeps going, music blaring through the speakers overhead, till he’s too exhausted to do anything but crawl upstairs and collapse into his bed. 

Nick calls him every day and chatters on for the better part of an hour about nothing, filling the silence where Harry’s voice should be. Harry knows he’s worried, but it’s too much of an effort to put on a front with him, when Nick would see right through it anyway. So he just lets him talk, making affirming noises when he’s meant to. 

Jeff calls him up too, and keeps calling, checking in with him almost daily. They’ve talked only vaguely about what’s going to happen next, and Jeff must sense that it’s not the time to push it. Harry hadn’t wanted to think about it much, those last months of tour. It had felt like everything in his life was falling apart, and some part of him had been afraid that talking about the future in too-definite terms would fix its form in place. 

All he had wanted to do, then, was go back, to rewind the tape of his history with Niall. It had become an obsession, almost, sifting through his memories of the years they’d spent together, trying to figure out when he’d done it—said the wrong thing, made the wrong move, whatever it was that had convinced Niall, finally, that Harry was no longer worth loving. 

He doesn’t wonder anymore. He knows it doesn’t matter anymore, what he’d done then, what he’d failed to do back then. It’s what he did after that proved Niall right. 

A month into his new life, Jeff asks if he’s ready to start meeting with labels. They’re at lunch at Harry’s favorite restaurant, although he can’t muster up much of an appetite. He’s been picking desultorily at a salad, trying to eat just enough that Jeff won’t get that sad, concerned look on his face, the one that makes him look ten years older. 

He says yes. It’s hard to imagine going through with it, when most days his thoughts feel like raw sludge, a toxic mess he can barely manage to wade through on his own. But maybe it’ll help, making music again. It’s worth a try. 

*

The morning of his first meeting, he has the drowning dream again. He wakes up thrashing as usual, his legs all tangled up in the sheets, the blankets trapping him. “Niall,” he gasps aloud, and the sound of the name jolts him properly awake, eyes wide and staring into the darkness. 

His hair is damp with sweat. He can’t catch his breath, his heart still racing, the scar on his throat ablaze with pain. He doesn’t know why he’d called Niall’s name, or why it had felt, for just an instant, that he might answer. That he might step out of the shadows like he’d been there all along, waiting only for Harry to call him. 

His mobile’s ringing. That’s what had woken him up. Harry scrambles for it, nearly knocking over the glass of water he’d left on the bedside table. 

“Hullo?” he says, voice scratchy. 

“Car’ll be out front in ten,” Jeff says. “Security’s with them. I’ll meet you at Columbia’s offices downtown, yeah? Need me to bring you anything?” 

“I—no,” Harry says, scrambling out of bed. “I’ll be there, yeah. See you.” 

He hangs up. Shit. _Shit._ He must’ve fallen asleep last night without setting an alarm. He gets dressed hurriedly, pulling on a mostly-clean pair of black skinny jeans and a rumpled but brightly patterned Hawaiian shirt from the closet. At least he’d showered after his workout yesterday, and it’s easy enough to sweep the damp, tangled mass of his curls into a loose bun. A pair of sunglasses hides his eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep, and the dark circles beneath them. He’s waiting out front when the car pulls into the drive. 

He dozes off again in the car on the drive there, waking up only when the driver clears his throat, looking at him in the rearview mirror, and says, “Here, sir.” 

Harry mumbles his thanks, pushing the door open. There are only a few paps loitering outside, but they’re a subdued lot today, and nobody yells anything rude. Security’s already waiting to escort him into the building. 

“Mr. Styles?” 

Harry turns his head in the direction of the voice, blinking, to see a woman and a young girl, her daughter presumably, standing a few meters away. 

“No pictures today, ma’am,” the security guard says, but Harry, looking at the little girl’s hopeful face, says, “It’s okay. Can stop for a minute.” 

“Thank you,” the mother says, looking flustered. “We won’t bother you. It’s just, my daughter Grace loves your songs. She watches your music videos all the time.” 

“Hi Grace,” Harry says. He crouches down next to her, ignoring the prickling feeling he always gets when someone’s trying to secretly take his photo, camera lenses zooming in closer, locking him in place. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” she says. She’s young, six maybe, but she looks at him without a hint of shyness in her expression, studying his face gravely. “Where are you going?”

“Just a meeting,” Harry says. “A boring meeting. I’ll probably fall right asleep.” He pretends to doze off, his head lolling onto his shoulder. He lets out a loud snore. That makes her laugh.

“You’re silly,” she says. “I like you.” 

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” she says. “I like you best. My mom lets me watch you on her iPad. But I can only watch you three times a day and then I have to do all my homework. It takes so long, but I’m the best at reading. Then I have to walk Pogo with my dad. We have to walk a million _trillion_ miles, for exercise.”

“Who’s Pogo?”

“My dog,” she says. “He’s called Pogostick because he jumps and jumps and jumps. Like this.” She demonstrates for him. “When he was a puppy he jumped up and bit me on the chin, but it’s okay because he wasn’t being mean. He thought it was just a game. I was very brave. I only cried a little.” 

“Gracie,” her mom says. “We should go.” 

“Were you brave too?” Gracie asks. “When the dog bit you?”

Harry’s chest feels suddenly tight, an iron band tightening round his lungs. He thinks about drowning, sinking. About dark water filling his lungs, taking up the space where breath should be.

“I’m sorry,” her mother says, embarrassed. “She must’ve seen something on TV—oh, god, I’m _so_ sorry.” 

“It’s all right,” Harry tells her. He tries to smile at Grace, who’s regarding him solemnly, but he can’t make his mouth form the right shape. “I don’t remember. Isn’t that silly? After it happened I fell asleep for a while, and then when I woke up, I couldn’t remember.” 

Gracie frowns. She opens her mouth to say something more, but her mother steps forward, touching her shoulder. Harry doesn’t know if it’s his imagination or if she’s looking at him strangely now, as though something about his answer’s given him away. 

“Let’s not bother Mr. Styles anymore, sweetheart,” she says. “Tell him thank you for saying hello.”

Harry straightens up. His mouth feels dry, suddenly. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and turns away, moving blindly towards the building. He’s not even sure what he’s apologizing for. He’s just sorry.

*

He’s distracted all through the meeting with the label execs. He can’t seem to stop drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, jogging his knee under the conference table, trying to burn off some of the nervous energy thrumming through him. People keep giving long, earnest speeches in his direction, and Harry’s smiling at them, or half-smiling, anyway, but it’s like he can’t snap his brain back into focus. 

“Harry,” Jeff says. “What do you think?”

Harry blinks. He looks at the faces assembled around the conference table, each in turn: Jeff, his PR rep Sarah, the blokes from legal, and the exec from the label whose name Harry has already forgotten.

He clears his throat. “I—yeah, definitely. That sounds great.”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for Harry to realize he’s put his foot in it somehow. Then Sarah’s saying, brightly, “Maybe we should take a quick break before we get into all that, yeah? I’ll send Ryan out for coffees.”

Jeff corners Harry on his way back from the toilets, steering him into an empty conference room down the hall. The look on his face makes Harry feel even guiltier. There’s not a trace of irritation in it, just genuine worry. 

“I know,” he says, before Jeff can even open his mouth. “I know I’m wasting everyone’s time. I’ll be better when we go back in, I promise.”

“Nobody’s upset with you, H,” Jeff says. “If you want to reschedule, we reschedule, no problem. You call the shots with these people, okay? They’re the ones wooing you.” 

“I’ll be better,” Harry repeats. He bounces on the balls of his feet, like he’s amping himself up for a gig he doesn’t particularly want to do. “I’m ready. I won’t fuck it up.”

There’s that flicker of worry again. Jeff puts a hand on Harry’s arm to still him. Harry resists the impulse to flinch away from the touch—it’s _Jeff_ , it’s fine—but it’s a close thing. Jeff must see something of it in his face, though, because the furrow in his brow deepens. 

“I think we should take a rain check today,” he says.

“You just said I get to call the shots.”

Jeff shakes his head. “I know, but—listen, Harry. We’re trying to think long-term here, yeah? It’s not just about the first single, the first album. It’s about setting you up for a career that’s going to really last. It’s important that you’re in the right headspace when we start.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I know that.” 

“I want you to take the week,” Jeff says. “And the weekend, too. I thought it might be good for you to have something to focus on, but maybe I was wrong. I want you to think about it, okay? I want you to sit down and really think about what you want, and if now’s the right time.”

The gentleness in his voice makes it worse, somehow, when Harry knows it must be masking an undercurrent of disappointment. He’s fucking it up, again. He’s letting people down. 

“It is the right time,” he insists, but there’s not enough fight in him to push it. 

“I’ll make something up,” Jeff says. “Tell them you’ve got some family stuff going on right now and you’re a little scattered. They’ll understand. And H – why don’t you come over for dinner tonight at our place? Glenne’s been asking about you. She’d love to catch up.” 

Harry shakes his head. He can’t really stand the thought of being around people who know him tonight, an entire evening spent pretending he doesn’t notice the worried glances they’ll exchange over his head when they think he’s not looking. “Not tonight. Think I need to just—I dunno, get out or something. Clear my head.”

He texts his PA in the car. _Got anything for me tonight?_

 _Gallery opening at 8:30,_ she texts back. 

Harry glances at his watch. It’s only three in the afternoon now. He looks out the window, drumming his fingers on the armrest, thinking. 

_Great,_ he types back. _Think you can get me in for a haircut before then?_

*

“Wow,” the artist says for the third time, her eyes huge. “Wow, I just—I really can’t believe you’re here.”

She's young, probably just a few years older than he is. _Rising star in the art world,_ his PA had told him, briefing by phone in the car over, _a real genius, honestly, you’ll love her stuff._ Harry feels rather guilty, now, that he hadn’t actually looked up anything more about her before arriving at the gallery opening. Usually he’s better about that kind of thing, prefers to know where he’s going and who he’s meeting, but tonight he’d just been in dire need of a distraction, anything to get him out of his head for a bit. 

And now he’s here, holding hands with a virtual stranger—she’d kept holding it after the handshake, and it’s sort of comforting, actually, grounding in a weird way—and trying to act like he’s not practically vibrating out of his skin with anxiety. 

“I’m really glad to be here,” he tells her. “Your work looks amazing.”

“Wow,” she says again, and then squeezes his hand, letting it go. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, have I been holding your hand this whole time? I’m not a creep, I promise.” She laughs nervously. “Sorry! I’m just starstruck. I mean, you’ve cut your hair, and I just—I really didn’t expect both of you, that’s all.”

Harry smiles at her. “Both?”

“You and Zayn,” she says. “Er—Malik?”

Harry freezes. “Zayn’s here?”

“Oh no.” Her eyes go wide. “Is that—I’m sorry, is that all right? He’s in the other room, I think, looking at a piece.” 

Harry glances over her shoulder, as if Zayn’s about to materialize out of nowhere and yell Boo! Come to think of it, he had been surprised by the unusually heavy pap presence outside—art celebrities don’t usually make the gossip mags—but he’d figured someone else was already here. A Kardashian maybe, or some LA socialite. 

Maybe it was inevitable, though. He’s been going out so much since he got here, every night almost, that it was probably bound to happen eventually. LA’s a big city, but it’s not that big, and the circles he and Zayn run in are even smaller. 

Harry straightens up a little. He can handle this. He’ll just—he’ll stay for a bit, till it doesn’t look like he’s turning tail and fleeing. Then he’ll go. To Jeff’s, maybe, if it’s not too late, to be fussed over a little and put to bed in the spare room. 

“It’s fine,” he reassures her. “Really. I’ll just have a look around, if that’s all right." 

He snags a flute of champagne off a passing waiter's tray and downs it in three gulps, then grabs another, just to have something to do with his hands. He keeps to the outskirts of the main room of the gallery, moving slowly from piece to piece, staring up at them. 

They really are brilliant, huge canvases with bold, bright splashes of color. For someone who owns quite a few very expensive pieces of art, Harry knows next to nothing about the technical aspects, or how you're meant to evaluate talent. Mostly he just listens and nods whenever people try to explain those things to him, and then he buys whatever made him feel something—something visceral, something honest. 

It's bizarre, not being able to run his hands through his hair, or twist it up into a messy bun. He keeps touching the back of his neck reflexively, fingers brushing over the naked skin there. The stylist had nearly had a heart attack when she’d realized what he was asking for; she’d kept asking him, over and over again, if he was one hundred percent sure. 

He’d hoped it would feel different, better: that he’d feel transformed. Instead he feels a bit like Samson, all his strength shorn away. He tries not to feel self-conscious about it. Tries to smile and be charming when people talk to him, downing another flute of champagne in the process. 

“Your glass, sir,” a waiter says behind him, and Harry turns, empty glass in hand, and catches Zayn’s eye across the room. 

His heart skips a beat. He sees the surprise register on Zayn’s face, just for an instant; then his expression’s wiped blank again, his gaze passing smoothly past Harry, over the crowd. Harry turns away—too quickly, maybe, but he’s suddenly desperate to put his back to the crowd of onlookers. 

He stares blankly at the painting hung on the wall in front of him. It’s a massive off-white canvas stained with rust-colored streaks that look rather horribly like blood. There's a smudged handprint high up on the left side of the painting and a long smear of paint below it, as if someone had tried to claw their way up the side only to be dragged back down. 

Harry tries to read the little placard next to it, but the print's too small and he can't seem to focus. He feels woozy suddenly, too much champagne on an empty stomach catching up with him. 

"Need some air," he mumbles to the person nearest him. He thinks he's been introduced, maybe, although the startled glance she gives him suggests maybe not. 

He pushes his way through the crowd, keeping his head down, the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling. There's the front door, but he hasn't called a car yet, and at the moment the thought of having to force his way through a swarm of paps makes him feel panicky. He heads for the stairs instead. 

There’s a roof, and the door isn’t alarmed, thank god. Outside the air is cooler and less stifling, though it only makes him feel drunker, more conscious of his body. He tugs at the scarf he’s knotted round his neck, working it loose. The scar on his throat itches, the way it had for weeks after the stitches were removed. He can't bear to touch it. He stands there for what feels like a long time, gulping down lungfuls of air in a vain attempt to steady himself. 

"Nice hair." 

Harry spins around, his heart knocking against his ribs. 

Zayn's standing a few meters away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He looks just as cool and composed as he had downstairs, beautiful in an untouchable way. He looks like a stranger. 

Harry feels a flash of anger, and embarrassment, too, at being caught out like this. “Gives them something else to stare at, I suppose,” he says pointedly, and Zayn’s eyes flick back up from the scar. 

“Are you all right?" 

Harry snorts. “Define all right. I’m here, aren't I?” He spreads his arms wide. “Standing up. Breathing. Talking to you, fuck knows why. Don't you have moody selfies to take or something?”

Zayn’s expression shifts slightly. Only for a second, though, and then his face goes smooth and blank again. 

It used to drive Harry mad, the way Zayn could go cold like that, rigid, his beauty a mask he slipped on to keep the world from peering in. Used to drive him mad with envy, too. Over the years he’d learned how not to let everything he was feeling show on his face, but he’d done it by charming and deflecting, rambling on till he’d talked his way in circles around the questions he didn’t want to answer. He’d never quite mastered the trick of switching off, conserving himself for himself. 

“You’re drunk,” Zayn says. 

“Ten points to Slytherin.”

“Is somebody with you?” 

Harry ignores this. “Get it? You're a Slytherin. ’Cos you—”

He stops. He'd almost said _betrayed us_ , but it feels, suddenly, too revealing. Too raw. Some part of him’s afraid it might hurt him more deeply than it would Zayn, saying the words aloud. 

“Because I’m a snake,” Zayn finishes for him, flatly. “Is that why? Because you think I’m evil?”

Harry flinches. “I—no,” he says lamely. The spark of anger he’d felt flickers out, swallowed up by a wave of stomach-churning guilt. 

“You know what,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “Forget it. I don’t want to fight with you, Harry. I saw you come up here and I thought—I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. Obviously you’re doing just fine.”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, then closes it again abruptly. With a sudden, horrible clarity, he realizes he’s about to be sick. 

“’M fine,” he grits out through his teeth. “Can go away.” 

“Yeah, got it,” Zayn says, and then he glances up at Harry, and his eyes go wide. “Harry, are you—”

Harry takes a stumbling step towards one of the eaves, hoping to put his back to Zayn at least. It’s too late. Bending over nearly double, a hand pressed to his stomach, he vomits up everything he’s had in the last six hours: five flutes’ worth of champagne and a revoltingly half-digested asparagus tart. 

By the end nothing’s coming up but bile, though it’s a few minutes more before he can stop himself dry-heaving. 

“Here,” Zayn says from behind him. He's produced a water bottle from somewhere, as if by magic, and he presses it into Harry's hand. “Better drink this. And come sit down.”

Harry feels too shaky to argue with him. He lets Zayn steer him over away from the mess, towards the other side of the roof.

“Stay away from the edge.” Zayn grasps his arm just above the elbow, tugging him back. 

Harry scowls. “I'm not going to jump.”

“Because of the paps, I meant, you drama queen,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. “Come on, sit.”

Harry does. Not because Zayn’s told him to, of course, but because his legs do feel a bit wobbly, and it'd be embarrassing if, after his angry declaration, he accidentally pitched over the side. He settles onto the ground, leaning back against the stone. After a second’s hesitation, Zayn sits down too, though he keeps a few meters of wall between them. 

There's a long silence. Harry wraps his arms around his knees, hugging them closer. The night air isn't cold here, but it still feels sometimes like he can't ever get properly warm, as if the chill that’s settled along his bones is just a part of him now, something he’ll carry with him wherever he goes. 

“You been doing that a lot?” Zayn says finally. 

Harry looks at him, then glances away. “What,” he says. “Being a dick?”

“Ha,” Zayn says. “No. The drinking too much and not eating thing, I mean.” 

His voice is neutral, but Harry can feel the way Zayn's watching him, his gaze intent. He shakes his head.

“Just a shit day,” he says quietly, picking at a fraying string on his jeans. “A shit year, to be honest.”

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Harry stares at him, surprised. “What, with you?”

"No, with Madonna," Zayn says, sounding so much like Louis for a moment it almost startles a laugh out of Harry. “Yes, with me, idiot.” He shifts uncomfortably, fingers twitching towards the pocket of his suit jacket like he'd rather be holding a cigarette. Like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, otherwise. 

He's nervous, Harry realizes suddenly. For some reason the knowledge floors him. 

Zayn must misread the expression on his face. “Or not,” he says, in that stiff voice he gets when someone's wounded his pride. He shifts like he's going to get to his feet. 

Harry grabs his arm. “Wait,” he says. “Sorry. I genuinely wasn't trying to be a dick that time.”

Now that he's looking for them, Harry can detect the faint but familiar signs of Zayn's discomfort, concealed imperfectly beneath that mask of composure. He can see the tension in his shoulders and the clenched muscle in his jaw, the way Zayn keeps curling his fingers in against his palms and flattening them back out, a quick, reflexive gesture. 

_I know you,_ Harry thinks, and there's wonder in it, and an ache, too. _I still know you._

“You—my mum said you sent flowers,” he blurts out. “To the hospital.” 

“Gigi’s idea,” Zayn says gruffly. “Thought it’d be, like. A nice gesture.” 

He gives a little half shrug, like he’s not bothered one way or the other. But Harry’s onto him now. 

“It was,” he insists. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” 

Zayn’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I would’ve visited. I was in London, you know. Went to see my family. But I thought—I didn’t know, like. If you’d want to see me.”

“Probably not,” Harry admits. “Not because I was angry, really. Just—I didn’t really want to see anyone, for a while.”

“I get that.” Zayn looks at him. “That why you’re still not taking anybody’s calls?”

Harry bites his lip. “Liam called you.” 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, and then hesitates. “Louis, too.”

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah, well,” Zayn says. “Hundred quid says Payno made him. Sounded like he wanted to tell me to get fucked, but he just said, like—if I wasn’t a total self-absorbed wanker with my head up my own arse I’d look out for you. Make sure you weren’t, I dunno. Sicking up on rooftops.” 

“I don’t need a minder,” Harry snaps. “I’m not your responsibility.”

“I know.” Zayn doesn’t seem offended by his tone. “That’s what I told him, too. That you were a grownup and you could take care of yourself. And then we fought about it, and he _did_ tell me to get fucked, and I told him he was the self-absorbed wanker, and he put the phone down on me.” 

“Sounds like Lou.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “Except he called back.” 

Harry looks at him, startled. “Really?”

“He’s worried about you. They both are. Think he sort of—I dunno. Blames himself, maybe. For letting you run off without talking to him. For letting Niall run off.”

“That’s bullshit,” Harry says, annoyed. “If they told you what happened, you know that’s bullshit. I fucked up, all right, and that’s why I’m not—I don’t need Lou to tell me that, okay, I’ve got it loud and clear. I almost got their best mate killed, and I could’ve gotten them killed, too, all ‘cos I got rejected and couldn’t fucking handle it.” 

He says it as viciously as he can, every word soaked in venom. He hates the way Zayn’s looking at him, half-confused and half-pitying. Hates it even more when Zayn says gently, like Harry needs to be soothed, “Harry, nobody’s angry with you. Liam said—he said this bloke, this Jack, was controlling you. Stalking you, like. They said he wanted to hurt you to hurt Niall.” 

Shame burns through Harry. Abruptly he pushes himself away from Zayn, scrambling to his feet. 

“Harry,” Zayn says. He gets to his feet, too, moving towards him, but Harry pulls away. 

“I went to him,” he says. “To Jack. I knew he wasn’t good, I knew Niall didn’t trust him, and I still fucking went to him. I _begged_ him, Zayn. I told him I’d do anything he wanted, anything at all, if he’d just help me keep Niall from leaving.”

Zayn’s gaping at him, but Harry doesn’t stop. He can’t. He feels like he’s going to be sick again, only this time it’s not bile he’s vomiting up but words, the awful confession he’s been holding back the past month. 

“I thought he’d want, like—blood, I dunno.” It seems so stupid now, how naïve he’d been. How willing he’d been to believe the best about Jack, just because he’d taken him to a nice dinner and poured out glass after glass of red wine for him, listening sympathetically for hours as Harry spilled out his heart, all his hopes and fears, all the things he wanted from Niall. “And I thought that was okay, I could give him that. I didn’t—I didn’t want to, really, but I could. If that’s what he wanted.”

He can’t explain how desperate he’d felt. Everything was slipping away—the band, Niall. It was all going. When he’d run into Liam the day before Niall’s going-away party, the look on his face had told Harry everything he needed to know. It was for real, all of it. Niall was going and he wasn’t coming back, and this was it, his last chance. His only shot. 

Jack had known just what to say. He’d confessed that he regretted his disagreement with Niall—a foolish dispute, he said, more than a century ago. He had told Harry how happy he would be to help, how delighted. _If I could aid him in this,_ Jack had told him, smiling, _perhaps he might find it in his heart to rekindle our friendship._

“Babes,” Zayn says now, shaking his head. “That’s not—that doesn’t make it okay, what he did to you. He lied to you.”

The words make Harry’s stomach lurch. Zayn wouldn’t comfort him, if he knew. Liam wouldn’t worry, Louis wouldn’t blame himself. Not if they knew the whole truth.

“That’s not all,” he says. “That’s not why Niall left.” 

Zayn frowns. He opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off. 

“I tried to make him turn me.” He forces the words out. “I found him at the party. I told him I wanted one more night, that was it, for closure. And then I’d never bother him again. I went home with him and then—then when he fell asleep, I got up and I slashed open all the blood bags I could find. I knew it would make him lose control, I knew he wouldn’t be able to help it. I knew he’d be angry with me after, but I thought—I thought it wouldn’t matter, ‘cos it’d be over, and we could work it out. We’d have time to work it out, and he’d see it wasn’t really a big deal, and I was happy. And then we could be together.” 

Zayn sucks in a breath. “What happened?”

Harry closes his eyes. He remembers the way Niall had collapsed in the doorway, his knees buckling beneath him. The way his whole body had shook, convulsing almost, his gaze darting blindly around the room, the worst panic attack Harry had ever witnessed. Harry had almost lost his nerve, then—his tears choking him, threatening to blind him, too, as he cradled Niall’s head in his hands, soothing him, his hands still wet with a stranger’s blood. But he hadn’t stopped. 

One little push. That’s what Jack had said. This pain, now, so that they could have forever. 

“Turns out it doesn’t work like that,” he says. “Not the way I did it. He said—he could’ve killed me, and he wouldn’t have even known. He wouldn’t have realized till it was too late.”

“But he stopped,” Zayn says. “He didn’t hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “He stopped. And after he said he never wanted to see me again.” He laughs, the sound harsh. “Had to come save me right after. Had to kill somebody for me.”

“People say shit they don’t mean all the time when they’re mad.” 

“Yeah, well,” Harry says. “He left. So he must’ve meant it.” 

Zayn frowns. “Louis reckons Niall feels responsible for what happened. Like he should’ve protected you, or warned you at least.” 

“Louis doesn’t know,” Harry says. “He doesn’t know what I did. Niall coming back for me, that’s not—it doesn’t mean he changed his mind. It just means he’s a good person.” 

“So find him,” Zayn says. “Apologize to him. Tell him you didn’t understand how it worked, and you’re sorry for hurting him. It’s _Niall_ , Harry. You’re his best friend. Do you really think he’s sat somewhere, stewing over how much he hates you and how awful you are, and how he never wants to see you again?”

“You don’t get it,” Harry shoots back. “You weren’t there, okay? It was different after you left. We were different.” He shakes his head. “He stopped talking to me. He barely touched me anymore. And I thought—we were so tired, all of us. I thought it was just a rough patch. I thought we just had to get through it, and once things slowed down we could fix it, whatever was wrong.”

“Mind if I smoke?” Zayn says suddenly. 

The sudden change in topic throws Harry. He stiffens a little and glances away, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Yeah, fine,” he says. “I should probably head back down, anyway.”

“Oh, come on, Haz,” Zayn says. “I’m not blowing you off, I swear. Just—it’ll help me think how to say it.”

“How to say what?”

Instead of responding Zayn produces a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, shaking one out. He lights it quickly, cupping his hand around the flare of the lighter until it catches, then inhales deeply. After a moment or two he starts to relax visibly, some of the tension bleeding from his body. 

“Okay,” he says, turning back towards Harry. “Okay, listen. Did Niall ever tell you how he became a vampire?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Not really,” he says. “Just that it was in Mullingar, ages ago. And it wasn’t like _Twilight_ at all.” 

“I asked him about it once,” Zayn says. “Like, how old he was when it happened. What it was like.”

“Yeah?”

“It was weird,” Zayn says. “He just sort of shut down, like. I’d never seen him look like that before. Total blank, like there wasn’t anything happening in his head. He said he hadn’t had a choice. And he said if anybody ever tried to do that to you, he’d kill them.” He stops, shaking his head. “No, it was more specific than that. He said he’d make them pay. He’d kill everything they loved in front of them and then he’d kill them, slowly.” 

Harry looks at him uncertainly. “He said that?”

“Didn’t even hesitate,” Zayn says. “Didn’t have to think about it. Just: he’d kill them.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. “Well, maybe he felt like that back then—” 

Zayn interrupts him. “It was Jack,” he says. “You know that, right? Liam said Niall told them, before he went after you. It was Jack who turned him.” 

Harry stills. Something’s beginning to stir at the edges of his consciousness: a memory, half-formed, wrapped in cotton wool. Jack and Niall, arguing. Or no—not arguing. Jack speaking in that soft, silky voice of his, and Niall answering in faltering phrases, his own voice barely more than a whisper. 

_I chose you. I knew you.  
How exquisitely you suffer._

“I thought about it,” Zayn says. “I thought about it a lot, actually, after that. I’d always kinda wondered, you know? Like, if something had happened to him, before.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks.

“I dunno,” Zayn says. “Just—he didn’t like feeling trapped, did he? I mean, nobody does, obviously, but you’ve seen him. Perrie used to get claustrophobic sometimes too, in lifts, but it was never that bad. And he never let anybody sleep in his bunk except you.”

“That’s just ‘cos I was best to share with,” Harry says. “Louis eats crisps in bed and gets crumbs everywhere, and Liam talks in his sleep. And you don’t like other people in your space.” 

“Yeah, well,” Zayn says, “you kick and you snore like mad and you talk in your sleep. You’re a bloody nightmare to bunk with, honestly. But he still let you.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, that’s not the point. It wasn’t just small spaces, was it? He didn’t like it when people touched him when he wasn’t expecting it. He hated it when Louis wanted to wrestle on the bus, he’d just get up and walk out. And he never wanted to talk about his life before. Two hundred years—that’s a long fucking time to be alive, right? I used to ask him all the time, if he remembered living through stuff we read about in school. And he always just sort of shrugged it off, said he was boring and there wasn’t much to say.” 

“So what,” Harry says. “What’re you saying?”

It comes out vaguely defensive. He feels weird, listening to Zayn say these things about Niall. It’s not that he thinks Zayn’s wrong; he recognizes the truth in it, can see all the pieces Zayn’s laying out for him. He’d just never fit them together that way himself. 

Zayn stubs out his cigarette with the toe of his boot. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, I just stopped asking eventually, ‘cos he clearly didn’t like talking about it. But when they told me about this Jack guy, the stuff he did to you—I thought, like. Maybe that was why. Maybe that’s what it meant to him, being the way he was.” 

Harry still isn’t sure he gets it. Tentatively, he says, “You think he didn’t like it. Being a vampire.”

“I think he hated it,” Zayn says frankly. “I think he hated what he was. He thought it made him bad or something. Evil.”

“That’s stupid,” Harry says, like Zayn’s the one he has to convince. “There was nothing wrong with him. He knew I didn’t care. None of us cared.”

“I’m not saying he was right,” Zayn says. “I’m saying just because something feels one way to you, that doesn’t mean the other person’s feeling it the same way. For you it’s like, well, if he loved you he would’ve stayed. But maybe that’s not the way he sees it. Maybe it’s like—if he really loved you, that meant he had to give you up.” 

Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. “How do you know this,” he says finally. “If he didn’t tell you, how do you know?”

“I don’t know it for sure,” Zayn says. “It’s just a theory, innit? And I didn’t see it like that, not at first. I was angry with him there at the end, ‘cos I thought he wasn’t being fair to you, not making up his mind. We had a row about it, couple weeks before I went home. I think—I think I had to leave before I could see it.

“Leave the band, you mean.” Harry looks up at him.

“I’m not a Slytherin,” Zayn says. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks, now. “I’m not a snake. Just ‘cos I left doesn’t mean I didn’t care about you lot. It looks one way to you, Harry—the band, all of it. You loved it, you always have. Even with all the shit we had to put up with, you’re still always gonna look back at it and think, _That was the best time of my life._ ”

“And it wasn’t for you,” Harry says slowly.

“It was,” Zayn says. “And it wasn’t. Reckon it’s going to take me another twenty years or so to sort that one out.” He shrugs. “Maybe I won’t ever. Maybe it’s okay if some things stay complicated." 

It’s a lovely thought, Harry thinks, except that he doesn’t exactly have twenty years.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What if you’re wrong? What if that’s not how he feels?”

“I guess you have to decide, then,” Zayn says patiently. “If it’s worth it to you, going after him. Even if you might not get the answer you want.” 

Harry nods. He wipes at his eyes. “I think—I think I need to go home,” he says. “I think I need to be by myself for a bit.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” Zayn says. “You realize everybody downstairs is gossiping like mad about us, right?”

“What d’you think they’re saying? Catfight?”

“Shagging, probably,” Zayn says. “I feel like we’re lovers, not fighters, y’know?” When Harry laughs, a little wetly, he adds with a grin, “Anyway, you’ve got limp noodles for arms. Nobody would ever believe it.” 

“Oi, I fought a _vampire_ ,” Harry says, pointing at the scar on his neck. “I mean, it didn’t go all that well, but I feel like it should count for something.” 

There’s a slightly awkward moment where they just stand there, looking at each other. Then Zayn steps forward and folds him into a hug. Harry buries his face in Zayn’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave.

“I’m still kind of mad at you,” he says softly. 

“I know, babes.” 

“I missed you,” Harry whispers. “Wasn’t the same without you.” 

Zayn doesn’t say anything to that. But he doesn’t let go either, just hugs him tighter, and Harry lets himself feel, for the first time in a long time, some small measure of peace. 

*

The scrap of paper is neatly folded, tucked away in the fold of his wallet. Sitting at his kitchen table, Harry takes it out and unfolds it slowly, smoothing out the creases. He opens a new text and types in the number, then a message. 

_You said you track them. H._

He waits a long minute, then another. There’s no response. Maybe she’s asleep, or driving to the station. Maybe she’s forgotten she even gave him this number. 

He puts his mobile facedown on the table and stands up. In the kitchen he fills the electric kettle, watching the water level slowly rise, and switches it on. 

There’s a message waiting for him when he comes back. 

_Yes. I do._

Harry stares at the words. 

He could move on. He could manage it eventually, if he just put his head down and kept going, kept working hard at building a new life for himself. Harry’s seen a hundred rom-coms, but he knows in his heart that it doesn’t always go like that. There’s not always a script or a safe, predictable ending. Love doesn’t have to triumph just because it’s love. Just as often, more often maybe, it flounders or flickers out, or turns out to be something altogether different than the thing you hoped it was. 

But he’s so tired. He’s tired of not having Niall, when everything’s so much better with him—so much lighter, so much freer. Harry could live without him, if he tried. It’s just that he doesn’t want to. 

He sits for a moment longer, hands wrapped around his mug. He lets the heat bleed into him, warming him up from the outside in. Then when he’s ready, he picks up the phone.

_Can you help me find him?_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> earlier today, my sister texted me "i can't believe it's actually happening, after you told so many lies to so many people about when you were going to finish it." but it's here, it's done, and I'm so proud of it, and I hope you love the dumb sad boys in this fic even a fraction as much as I've come to love them. 
> 
> I feel a bit like harry styles right now, giving birth to my child. probably in a minute the doctor's going to come along and tell me it's bad news, there's been a complication, and i've only got five minutes left in which to say all my MANY thank yous. well, here goes.
> 
> thank you to [ferryboatpeak](http://www.ferryboatpeak.tumblr.com) for betaing these last two chapters, and for offering feedback that helped reshape the final scene especially. thank you to the many wonderful humans who have read and asked after this story on tumblr, sending me messages that got me writing again. thank you [hannah](http://www.harrybasquiat.tumblr.com) for the beautiful fic edit on tumblr, and for always seeming to understand what I'm trying to convey with so much more nuance than I understand it myself. you are truly my ideal reader. a HUGE thank you to my sister [harrymynewborngiraffe](http://www.harrymynewborngiraffe.tumblr.com), who has yelled at me a lot, read several hundred thousand words of drafts, and helped revitalize my narry feelings by sending me vitally important gifs whenever I get mopey and sad about the hiatus. you are the best.
> 
> lastly, thanks to one direction for completely RUINING MY LIFE FOREVER, and for teaching me how to tell stories again.

Nothing goes according to plan.

Mehta’s sources are only able to confirm that Niall had taken a direct flight to Thailand the day he left London; they’d lost track of him the moment he stepped foot outside the terminal. Harry knows he should wait for more information, but now that he’s decided he’s going, the thought of remaining in LA a day longer seems intolerable. 

He buys a one-way ticket to Bangkok for the next day, then spends the night tossing and turning, fumbling for his phone in the dark every five minutes to see if Mehta’s texted again. He’s made vague plans to get breakfast with Jeff in the morning, but by five in the morning it’s clear that he’s in no state to make conversation with anyone. Instead he turns up at LAX four hours early and spends the whole time making everyone in the VIP lounge nervous, pacing up and down the rows of armchairs rehearsing possible conversation with Niall under his breath.

He’s got no idea how it’s going to go, is the thing. It feels so big he almost can’t imagine it: what it’ll feel like, seeing Niall again. What he’ll say first. What Niall will say back. 

In Bangkok he sets up camp in a dumpy two-star hotel near the airport. He’s less likely to attract attention if he’s roughing it, is the reasoning, although the lumpy mattress and the window onto a noisy alleyway come as something of a shock. He manages a day and a half there, sweating next to an overworked aircon unit and trawling update accounts on dial-up speed internet, before he spots it: a grainy photograph of a boy who could conceivably be Niall, shopping at a farmers’ market near a five-star beach resort, three hours outside the city. 

His cab deposits him at the gates of the resort, a place so posh Harry has to abandon his initial plan of sneaking past the concierge and exploring the place on his own. The woman at the front desk eyes his dusty boots and battered leather duffel bag with some suspicion, though her smile grows considerably warmer when he produces a credit card and books an exorbitantly expensive villa with beach access. 

Harry doesn’t even stop to look around his new accommodations, just drops his bag on the floor and heads straight out back, down towards the beach. His plan’s a little sketchier from here on out, but he figures if he just prowls along the coast long enough, looking for clues, he’ll be able to sort out eventually which villa belongs to Niall. It’s a bit nerve-wracking, peering over rich people’s fences, but there’s something exciting about it too. He hums the Bond theme song to himself, to boost his own morale.

Getting caught scaling one of the fences is also exciting, in its way, but not really in keeping with his master plan. 

“I’m not a trespasser!” Harry shouts, kicking and struggling wildly as a burly Thai security guard wrestles him to the ground. “My friend lives here, I’m just visiting him!”

*

They lock him up in a tiny, airless office just off the reception area, deaf to all of his protests. He hasn’t got his passport on him, having left it in his bag, and for the first time in recent memory, not a single person seems to recognize his face. 

“I’m famous too, you know,” he says to the woman they’ve tasked with keeping an eye on him. His left wrist has been handcuffed to the chair, probably because earlier he’d escaped the guards, lost his head entirely, and run straight into the sea. He’s soaked to the skin, dripping all over the place, but no one’s even offered him a towel. “I was on the X Factor, do you know it?”

“No English,” she says, her face impassive. It’s almost definitely an imperative and not a description of her linguistic abilities, but Harry won’t let himself be deterred. 

“You don’t know you’re beautiful,” he sings for her, hoping to jog her memory. “That’s what makes you beautiful.” 

No response. Harry sighs, slumping down into his chair. He’s just resigning himself to a swift and disgraceful deportation when the door opens and the concierge comes in, followed by a windswept, lightly sunburned Niall. He glances at Harry briefly, then away. 

“I’m very sorry for the trouble,” he says to the woman at the desk. “Could you please let him go?” 

When he’s released from the cuff Harry makes a great show of rubbing his wrist and wincing. Nobody pays him any attention, least of all Niall, who’s pulled out his wallet and is tipping the staff for their trouble. 

Harry stops rubbing his wrist. Nobody notices that either. 

“Come on,” Niall says, in his general direction. “And don’t try to swim away again, all right? The surf gets rough this time of day.” 

He turns and leaves the room without another word, not waiting to see if Harry’s following. 

They walk back to Niall’s villa in silence, Harry trailing a few meters behind. There’s a leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach that grows heavier every time he looks up at the tense line of Niall’s shoulders. Other guests are giving him strange looks as he passes, eyeing his wet clothes and bedraggled hair. It makes Harry feel like a small, grubby child, fresh from making an embarrassing scene. 

At the door of his villa, Niall swipes his keycard and pushes the door open. The living space is a large, airy room, low-ceilinged, with a wall of windows flung open onto the sea. When Harry steps inside he can hear the roar of the waves in the distance, and the faint cries of gulls, wheeling across the brilliant expanse of a perfectly blue sky. Niall’s things are scattered throughout the room: a t-shirt slung over the back of a chair, a pair of battered trainers lined up by the door. A guitar case Harry doesn’t recognize leans against a low sofa. 

Niall turns and looks down at where Harry’s dripping onto the tile. “If you want a shower, there’s clean towels under the sink. First door on the left.” 

It feels like a dismissal, like Harry’s being sent to his room for misbehaving. Tears prick at his eyes, hot and sudden. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods, turning blindly away. 

He strips off his wet things and leaves them in a soggy heap on the floor. Then he turns the water on as hot as it’ll go, hissing a little when he tests the spray against the back of his hand. When he steps under the water, the heat feels like an embrace, warm arms encircling him and drawing him close. He closes his eyes, letting his shoulders finally sag. 

He’s so stupid. He’s been so stupid, coming here. How many times, how many ways, does Niall have to reject him before he finally gets the hint? The thought of going back out there and facing him, that blank coldness, makes Harry feel so nauseous he can’t breathe. 

He slides down the wall. The tile’s chilly against his bare skin; it makes him feel shivery all over. He draws his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them, holding himself together. 

He doesn’t let himself cry. He hasn’t, not since that first night in the hospital. Partly because it feels like if he starts he’ll never stop, but mostly because he understands, no matter what Zayn says, that he doesn’t really deserve to cry. That the things he’s suffered don’t outweigh the magnitude of the wrongs he’s done. 

“Harry?” Niall sounds frightened, but Harry doesn’t lift his head. He barely registers Niall shutting off the water above him, climbing into the shower, but when Niall kneels next to him he says, helplessly, “You’ll get wet,” and then, “Oh, your _knees_ , Niall,” and then suddenly he’s weeping, weeping and weeping, as if his heart is breaking. 

Niall doesn’t seem to know what to do. He pulls the towel off the rack. “Harry, I’m sorry, I can’t—I’m just going to put it around you,” he says, sounding agonized, and drapes the towel awkwardly around Harry’s naked shoulders, careful not to touch his bare skin. 

Harry knows he should get up. He’s being selfish again, forcing Niall’s hand—making Niall touch him, take care of him, when Niall’s made it clear a dozen times over that Harry isn’t something he wants anymore. But he’s weak. He’s always been so weak for Niall, and he’s helpless now to do anything but lean into the touch, sobbing, gathering what scant comfort he can from the light pressure of Niall’s hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he says through his tears. “I’m sorry, I’m just. I’m tired, that’s all. I’m tired.” 

“Shh,” is all Niall says. “Shh, it’s all right. You’re all right.”

When he’s calmed down enough to stand up, hiccuping a little, Harry lets Niall help him to his feet and into the bedroom, where Niall produces a loose white t-shirt and a pair of briefs from a dresser drawer and hands them silently to Harry. Harry tries not to let it sting, the way Niall averts his eyes as Harry towels off and gets dressed, hands still trembling a little. 

“You should rest.” Niall nods towards the neatly made bed. “And then we should talk, I think.” 

Harry nods mutely, too exhausted to even feel dread at the prospect. 

Niall hesitates. Then he says, “The door locks. From the inside, I mean. There isn’t a key.” 

Harry blinks at him, confused. It doesn’t seem like either of them have much to worry about, given how rapidly security had dispatched of him mere hours ago. But then again, he’s hardly a master burglar. 

“I’ll just,” Niall says, gesturing vaguely towards the door. “Be out there, then.”

“Wait,” Harry blurts out. “Can you—will you stay?”

He hates the note of obvious pleading in his voice. But he feels so shaky, so unsteady, that he’ll beg if that’s what it takes. He isn’t too proud. 

“What?” Niall looks bewildered. 

“Just till I fall asleep,” Harry says, biting his lip. 

Some internal battle seems to be waging inside Niall. Finally, though, he says, “All right.” 

There’s no chair in the room, so Harry touches the bedspread next to him. “You can, if you want. S’your bed.” 

He burrows immediately under the covers, rolling over onto his side with his back to Niall so Niall won’t think he expects anything. After a moment he feels the mattress dip as Niall settles down beside him, stretching out on top of the blankets. 

*

It’s night when he wakes again, the room around him dark and cool. In their sleep they’ve both migrated towards the center of the bed, bodies drawn instinctually towards each other. Niall’s curled up against his back, an arm flung out over Harry’s waist. Now and then he mumbles something in his sleep, his breath warm and ticklish against the nape of Harry’s neck. 

Harry lies awake like that for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. Niall had told him, once, that it was only habit: the chest rising, falling. The body remembers how, long after the need for it’s stopped. 

After a while Harry gets up, sliding out from under Niall’s arm. He pads into the ensuite to use the toilet, then makes his way out into the darkened kitchen. He finds a glass in the cabinet and fills it with filtered water from the refrigerator, drinking three glasses in a row. 

“How are you doing?”

He turns. Niall stands in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at him. His clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them, his hair sticking up a little on one side. 

“I can go back to mine,” Harry says, putting the glass down, out of some vague worry Niall will be upset with him for touching his things. “I rented a villa, so I could get onto the beach.” 

“Think they evicted you,” Niall says, a hint of an apology in his voice. “Somebody brought your things by while you were asleep.” He jerks his chin towards the entry hall, where Harry sees his battered overnight bag sat just inside the door. 

Harry scowls. “Not to be all _I’m a famous popstar_ or whatever,” he says, “but I am quite a famous popstar, as it happens.” 

“Oh really?” Unexpectedly, a smile tugs at the corner of Niall’s mouth. “Anything I might’ve heard?”

It feels good, making Niall smile again. But it feels bad, too. Harry’s all mixed up inside still; there’s none of the clarity he'd hoped to feel, seeing Niall again.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t act like everything’s normal.” 

“Sorry.” The smile fades from Niall’s face. Harry can feel him withdrawing, retreating back into himself. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t do that either,” Harry says softly. “Don’t go away again.”

Niall nods. He shifts, uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Reckon we should have that talk,” he says. “If you’re up for it. Thought we could go down by the water.”

Harry’s never felt less up for anything in his life. But he nods anyway, and follows Niall out the back door of the villa, down the grassy path to the beach. 

*

They settle down in the white sand, just beyond the dunes. The tide’s low, and the moon above them hangs heavy and full, shimmering above the dark water. There’s no one out but the two of them. 

“I’m sorry,” Niall begins. “About earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you. It just took me by surprise, that’s all, seeing you.” He glances sidelong at Harry, then says, “And your hair’s different, too.”

“Had a bit of a Britney moment,” Harry admits. “Jeff’s going to kill me. I was supposed to save it for like, a magazine shoot or something. Is it awful?”

Niall clears his throat. “It—it’s not awful,” he says. 

It must be really bad, Harry thinks glumly, and then tries not to think about it anymore. He hasn’t flown all this way to ask Niall for hairstyling tips. 

“So,” he says. “You’re living here, then?” The villa had felt lived-in, not like a temporary stopover.

“Sort of, yeah,” Niall says. “Didn’t exactly plan on it. When I got in I just told the cabbie to take me to the first place I could think of. I came out here once for a wedding, few years back, and remembered the name.”

“Kinda swanky,” Harry says. “No backpacking for you?” 

“That was my plan,” Niall says. “But when I landed I wasn’t, um—I wasn’t really in a good place, mentally. Figured it’d be easier to hole up somewhere private for a little while. Then I just never moved on.” 

Harry wants to ask more, but he hesitates, unsure how to broach the subject. Niall’s a step ahead of him, though. He doesn’t look at Harry, but he says, “Wonder if I thought—I dunno. That someday you might want some answers.” He digs his fingers into the sand. “Thought it might be easier to find me in a place like this. So if there’s anything you want to know, you can—you can ask me. I reckon I owe you that at least.”

Harry takes a deep breath. “I met another vampire.” 

Niall looks up. “What?” 

“She’s a detective,” Harry says. “She came to visit when I was in hospital. She asked me about you.”

“Are you all right?” Niall says sharply. “You’re not hurt?” 

“No, no,” Harry says. “It wasn’t like that. I mean, I thought at first maybe he’d sent her after me, to avenge his death or something. But she wasn’t like him. She was the one who helped me find you, actually.” 

“She knew what I was?” 

“She said there’s loads of you in London,” Harry says. “I guess she’s like—not vampire police, exactly, ‘cos I don’t think she interferes much. But she sort of keeps tabs on things. She said she’d known about Jack for a long time. She’d been tracking him. And—and you, too. Because you lived with him, for a bit.” When Niall doesn’t say anything, Harry says, cautiously, “The boys said—they said he was the one who turned you. Back in Mullingar.”

“Yes,” Niall says, but doesn’t volunteer anything further.

“And he took you to London, after,” Harry says. 

“I went with him, yeah.” 

“He made you go?”

Niall’s quiet for a long time. Finally, he says, “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell, with Jack.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he turned me,” Niall says. “When I died and came back, it was like – I wasn’t all there. Not for a long time after. I can’t describe it.” He shakes his head. “I was living, but I wasn’t _alive_ , not really. I had this feeling that it was going to stop, eventually. It had to. If I just kept going, someone would come along in a little while and tell me that it was all a mistake, or a dream, and it was over now. And then – then they’d help me die. Like I should’ve, the first time.” 

Harry makes a soft, involuntary noise at that, but Niall doesn’t seem to hear. He’s looking out over the water, his expression distant. 

“Jack was so calm,” he says. “He was always so calm, and he never seemed afraid. He knew how to be, you know, like this. He’d tell me what to do like I was just going to do it, no questions asked, because it was what he wanted done. And he was right. I did everything he said.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Harry yearns to touch him, to lean in and bump their shoulders together, as if the contact alone might bring Niall out of whatever place he’s gone to in his head. But he doesn’t quite dare. He stays still, listening. 

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” Niall says. “I knew he hurt people. Knew that bit firsthand, didn’t I? But I thought if it wasn’t real, if it was just a mistake, it would be over soon. It was easier to just go along with it. And I—I couldn’t see then how they’d want me back, me mum and da, when it was me who led him to their door. So I went to London. And I lived with him in that house, and I hurt people, same as he did. I hurt them, and when I was finished I made them forget.” 

Something twists in Harry’s gut. 

“You didn’t know better,” he says. “It’s not the same, doing it ‘cos you have to survive. It hurts you, hurting people. It’s not a game to you.” 

“I still did it,” Niall says. “It’s what I am, Harry. I’m not human.” 

“You _are_ ,” Harry says hotly. He shifts, so that he’s knelt in the sand facing Niall. “You are, in every way that matters. And you left him, so you must’ve known it, even then. Why did you go? Why did you leave him?” 

Niall shudders a little. 

“I woke up one morning,” he says. “After he’d taken me hunting. I was on the floor, I hadn’t even made it to the bed. There was blood everywhere. All down my front, all over my hands, my face. And I couldn’t remember what had happened. I couldn’t remember where I’d been or whose blood it was. All I knew was that I’d lost control.” 

He looks at Harry, his eyes pleading. “I never killed anybody,” he says. “I don’t think I did. But I knew it was only a matter of time, if I kept on like that. Nobody was coming for me, nobody was going to wake me up. It was real, all of it, and I had to get out. I didn’t tell him I was going. I didn’t take anything with me. I just walked out the door and kept walking.” 

“You got away,” Harry says urgently. “You got away before it was too late. Before it changed you.” 

But Niall’s shaking his head. “That night, Harry,” he says. “When you came home with me, after Liam’s. The things I did—I know you’d rather not talk about it, I know you’d rather pretend everything’s fine, but I can’t. Don’t you see? Maybe you can forgive me for it, but I can’t—I can’t live with it, knowing what I did to you. Knowing he sent you to me and I didn’t even notice you’d been compelled. I took advantage of you, _used you,_ and then I nearly killed you, and after all that, I threw you out like the rubbish for Jack to come and collect.”

Harry gapes at him. “Niall, you’re mad. You’re mad if you think that’s what happened.” 

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Niall says, and the despair in his voice is so genuine Harry can’t help but shift towards him instinctively, reaching out to touch his wrist. Niall doesn’t shy away from the touch, but his shoulders go stiff, and it sends a pang through Harry. 

“It’s my fault,” he says. “Not yours. I came to you.” 

“Because he _made_ you,” Niall says miserably. “Don’t you get it, Harry? It would’ve been the funniest joke in the world to him. Forcing you to have sex with me, and then after—”

“He didn’t force me to have sex with you,” Harry interrupts, his eyes going wide. “Jesus, Niall, of course he didn’t. Why would you think that?”

Niall won’t look at him. “You were with someone. That girl from the papers.”

“I was not,” Harry says. “I told you, that was never serious. We snogged at a party and the paps happened to get it on camera. That’s it.” 

He’d liked the girl—she was funny and smart, and when she’d put her hand casually on his knee under the table at dinner, he’d felt that little spark of _maybe, yeah._ But it hadn’t lasted long, and when the spark flared out it had only left him feeling emptier and sadder than before. 

Something else occurs to him. 

“Earlier, when you told me the door locked,” he says. “You meant—because you were there, in the house. You meant I could lock you out if I wanted.” 

“You’ve got no reason to trust me,” Niall says. “Not after what I did.”

“I told you, I wasn’t under a compulsion. It was my idea. It was my fault.”

But it’s clear Niall’s not hearing him. He’s pulled even further away from Harry, like he can’t risk even the slightest contact. “You can’t know that,” he says, a stubborn set to his jaw. “You don’t know. He gets into your head, controls you.”

“Yeah, thanks, I know what that feels like,” Harry says. “And that wasn’t what happened, not that night. It was my idea, Niall.”

“Don’t be thick, Harry,” Niall says. “He’s ancient, and he’s smart, and you’re—”

“I’m what?” Harry says hotly. “What am I, Niall? A child, is that what you were going to say?”

“Trusting,” Niall says. “I was going to say you’re trusting, Harry. You think people are telling you the truth even when they’re using you. Even when they aren’t good. You want to think the best of everybody, and you’ll twist things around in your head to make it fit. You tell yourself stories where everyone’s nice, and the world’s a lovely place, really, even when it’s not, when they’re _not_. So how can you be sure that you’re not just telling yourself a story now, Harry, how can you possibly be sure?” 

“Because I’d thought about it before,” Harry snaps. “For ages and ages I’d thought about it. I’d thought hurting myself backstage and making it seem like an accident, or stealing your supply from the blood bank and hiding it somewhere. That night in your house—I didn’t need Jack there, telling me. I could’ve done it just as easily on my own, and that’s not just a nice little _story_ , Niall, that’s the truth. So if you’re awful then I’m twice as bad. Because at least he tricked you. I’m selfish and I’m greedy and I—I wanted you to want me, and when you didn’t I tried to make you.”

His face is hot with shame. Abruptly he pushes himself to his feet, stumbling a few meters down the beach towards the water, his back to Niall. He crosses his arms over his chest and hugs himself tight, blinking away furious tears. He’s so lost in his thoughts, in the roar of anger and hurt and grief in his head, that he doesn’t realize Niall’s come up behind him until he feels his hand on his arm.

“Harry,” Niall says. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying sorry.” Harry spins around to face him, jerking his arm away. “I’m the one who should be sorry. That’s what I’ve just told you, Niall. I’m the one who fucked everything up.”

“I should’ve warned you,” Niall says. “If I’d told you how dangerous he was you never would’ve gone near him. And if I’d just been honest with you from the beginning, about all of it—I should’ve told you everything.”

“I should’ve asked,” Harry shoots back. “But you know what the worst part is? I didn’t want to know, not really. I wanted to pretend we were the same. Like it was the first time for both of us. I knew you’d lived all these lives before me, and you’d had other friends, and probably you’d been in love with loads of other people. And when it was time you’d let them all go. I think I knew deep down you weren’t going to keep me either.”

Four years is nothing. He knows that. The time he spent with Niall—it takes up so much space in his own head, in his heart, but he knows it’s never really been equal between them. No matter how fiercely Harry loves him, no matter how tightly he clings to him, he’s only ever going to be a flicker in the long, long stretch of Niall’s life. An interlude. A pleasant memory, hazily remembered. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Niall says. “Harry, it was never like that. I’ve been with other people, yeah, but not—not like you.” He swallows hard. “There’s never been anyone like you. I’ve never loved anyone like I loved you.” 

Harry looks away. A few months ago he would’ve given anything to hear those words. Now it feels like a sucker-punch to the gut, a sudden and unexpected violence. _Loved._

“I wanted the same thing,” Niall says. “I wanted it to be the first time for me, too. So I reckon we’re both selfish in that regard. I’m sorry, Harry. Not just for Jack. For all of it, the whole past year. I’ve not been fair to you.” 

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. You were my best friend, and I shut you out. It was cruel.” 

Harry sniffles a little, and has to wipe at his nose with the back of his hand. “You were kind of a dick,” he says. “I cried a lot. Lou’s, um—she’s pretty mad at you, sorry. Dunno if you’ll get a Christmas card this year.”

Niall winces. “Yeah,” he says. “Kinda picked up on that that. Lucky I’ve got any hair left on me head, honestly.” 

“She did say we could make it all fall out, if I wanted,” Harry says. “I think she was joking.” 

“Doubt it,” Niall says. “She loves you. And I’d deserve it, anyway.”

“No,” Harry says. “You wouldn’t. It’s just—it’s been hard, really hard. Even before all this.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry says. “Well, I mean, you're definitely involved, but. It's been everything, I think. Us not being together, and the band not being together anymore. I dunno. It felt like it was all coming apart, and I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t keep things together.” He sighs. “And now it’s like—I don’t know. It’s not getting better. It doesn’t feel any better. I know I’m meant to be, like, thinking about the future, and making plans and things, and I just—I can’t, not yet. I’m not ready.” 

“Yeah,” Niall says. “I get it.” 

“I’ve got this meeting on Monday,” Harry says. “In LA, with Jeff and some people from Columbia. And I don’t even know if that’s what I want, really. I don’t know what I want.” 

Niall kicks at the sand. “Monday?” he says. “Next Monday?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. 

“Well,” Niall says. “If you needed a bit of a holiday, you could always—you could stay here, for a bit.” 

Harry looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Not a bad place to get your head on straight,” Niall says. “There’s, I dunno—there’s ruins and stuff, I think. And the beach, obviously. I haven’t got out much, to be honest. But it’s been sort of nice, the quiet.”

“I haven’t got a villa anymore.” 

“I’ve got one,” Niall says. “Could get you an extra keycard and everything.” 

Harry should probably pretend like he’s thinking about it, but he doesn’t. “I’d like that.”

“Me too,” Niall says, and ducks his head, like he’s just made some embarrassingly personal revelation. Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes, a surge of fondness swelling up in his chest. 

“Well, come on, then,” he says. “I’m starving. They wouldn’t bring me any food in prison.”

“You weren’t in _prison_ , Harry.”

“I was handcuffed,” Harry says. “To a chair.” 

“Because you were breaking and entering,” Niall points out, but Harry dismisses this with a wave of his hand. He feels giddy with happiness, lightheaded almost, at the prospect of an entire week here with Niall, alone. 

“Race you,” he says, knocking shoulders with Niall. “Last one back has to pay for room service.” 

“I’m paying for the hotel,” Niall complains, but Harry’s already spinning away from him, laughing, bolting towards their villa. 

“Lucky you’re rich!” he shouts over his shoulder. 

*

“Come on.” Niall nudges at Harry’s side with his foot. “Come swim with me. You’ve been baking all day.”

“Excuse me, Niall,” Harry says. He pushes his sunglasses up onto his forehead, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “I’ve been working. This tan doesn’t build itself.” 

“I’m bored,” Niall complains. He flops back onto his own lounger, though he doesn’t move his foot he’s got propped up against Harry’s side. “And you haven’t been in once since you got here.” 

Harry looks out over the beach. The view’s breathtaking, all white sand spilling down into pale, blue-green water, and further out, massive rock formations jutting up out of the depths. He’s gone down to the shore a few times, letting the waves lap at his feet, but even the gentlest tug of the tide round his ankles makes him feel vague stirrings of unease, some half-remembered fear surfacing. 

“I’m busy,” he says. “I’m reading.”

He gestures at the magazine he’s got open in his lap, a gossip rag two months out of date. It’s hard to focus on the state of Brangelina’s marriage, though, when all of his attention’s contracted on a single point of contact, Niall’s toes brushing against his side. 

It’s the first time Niall’s touched him in days. They’ve been sleeping in the same bed, but there hasn’t been a repeat of that first night, when he’d had woken up to find Niall curled around him, an arm slung over his waist. Niall doesn’t come in to bed until after Harry’s asleep, just putters around in the kitchen doing the washing-up till Harry can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He’s always up before Harry in the mornings, making breakfast or walking down by the water.

If they brush against each other in the night, bodies drawn together, Harry hasn’t woken up to feel it. For the first time in months he’s been sleeping soundly, untroubled by bad dreams. 

Maybe it’s enough, Harry thinks, being friends again. He can feel it happening already, the two of them smoothing out each other’s rough edges, learning to fit together again. With each passing day the uncomfortable silences grow shorter and less frequent, both of them sliding easily back into the rhythms of being around each other. They’re so practiced at it, after years and years spent living in each other’s back pockets, sharing space and private jokes. Back then everything had always seemed to sort itself out without much effort. All it took was a look, a touch, and whatever had been knocked askew slipped back into alignment, harmony restored. 

It had always seemed like a blessing—like proof, even, that this thing between them went far deeper than anything Harry saw around him. He used to feel a bit smug about it, when Zayn showed up to rehearsal glowering after a row with Perrie, when Eleanor and Louis had screaming fights and noisier makeup sex in the next hotel room over. _Look at us,_ he’d think, tucking himself under Niall’s arm, or clinging, barnacle-like, to Niall’s back. _We don’t even have to talk._ Sometimes he wonders now if it had been a curse, too, that effortless understanding. If, in knowing each other so intuitively, neither of them had ever learned how to do the harder work of making themselves known. 

He knows something’s mending between them now, something good and important. He’s trying to be okay with the realization that other parts might stay broken. 

“Ooh, improving your mind, are you?” Niall teases him. He shifts in the lounger next to him, craning his neck to look at Harry’s magazine, his toes digging into Harry’s ribs. “Expanding your horizons?” 

“Yes,” Harry says firmly, turning the page. 

He feels Niall react, going still beside him, before he even registers what he’s looking at. 

It’s a picture of his own face, splashed across most of one page. Judging by his appearance, it must’ve been shortly after he moved to LA. He looks awful, his hair lank and greasy, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. On the next page there’s a blurry close-up of where the scarf’s slipped down round his neck, revealing the ugly, puckered edge of his scar. 

GOING TO THE DOGS? the headline reads.

It’s so cruel—so casually, flippantly cruel—that Harry flushes, his face going hot. He shoves the magazine away as if it’s burned him. 

“Hey,” Niall says. 

“It’s fine,” Harry says, his voice thick. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what they say.” 

Niall’s foot slips away. Before Harry can mourn the loss of contact, he’s standing up, holding out a hand to him. “Come in with me,” he says. “It’s so beautiful, Harry. You’re gonna love it.” 

Harry looks at his hand for a moment. Then he takes it, letting Niall pull him to his feet. 

Niall’s right: it is beautiful. The water’s amazingly clear, so that when Harry looks down he can see his toes buried in the sand, tiny little fishes glinting in the light as they flit around his feet. He doesn’t want to go in too far, but Niall doesn’t push it, just stops when Harry does, the water lapping round his waist. He’s let go of Harry’s hand, but he stays close, within arm’s reach. He talks, too—easily and freely, about nothing in particular, and Harry relaxes slowly, lets the beauty of the place and the familiar cadences of Niall’s accent lull him into a state of something like calm. They drift a little further out, not far from the shore. Harry turns back to look at their stretch of beach, empty save for their two chairs, towels slung over the backs. 

The wave takes him by surprise. It’s not a big one—the water’s calm here in their little cove—but it’s unexpected enough to send him stumbling, tripping over nothing, and for a second his head goes under, his feet swept out from under him. He experiences a brief flash of panic—but then Niall’s hands are at his sides, sliding up along his ribs, pulling him upright again. Harry’s head breaks through the surface and he coughs, more startled than anything, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes. 

"Harry!” Niall says, so worried it’s almost comical. Harry can’t help but laugh, relief and gladness mixed up in it. Niall’s holding him still, an arm around Harry’s waist. 

“You saved me,” Harry says. He laughs again, turning his face up towards the sky, blinking against the dazzling brightness of the sun. “My hero.”

“Careful, or I’ll get a big head,” Niall says, worry softening into wry amusement, and Harry feels almost lightheaded at the way he’s smiling. He doesn’t want it to stop. He wants Niall to keep smiling at him like that, like he used to, the two of them giddy in the back of the tour bus, every silly little thing sending them off into fresh peals of laughter. 

“My hero,” Harry repeats in a breathy imitation of a Southern belle, putting a hand on Niall’s chest, leaning against him. He looks up at Niall through his lashes, fluttering them quickly, and it’s just a joke, a bit of silly nonsense, until he meets Niall’s eyes. He’s smiling still, but there’s something so soft in his expression, so unguarded, that Harry feels a brief flicker of guilt—like he’s seen something private, something Niall hadn’t meant for him to see. 

A wave rocks their bodies closer together. Niall doesn’t draw back. Instead his fingers curl reflexively at Harry’s hip, beneath the water, holding him still. His eyes flick, briefly, down to Harry’s mouth. 

Harry’s pulse kicks up, his throat gone suddenly dry. He knows, and he sees it—the moment Niall knows, too, the moment it’s decided.

“Niall,” he says, at the same moment Niall says, in a strained voice, “Let’s—inside.” 

His hand slips from Harry’s hip. Harry catches it, lacing their fingers together, and turns, tugging him towards the shore. They wade up from the shallows, stumbling up onto the shore, clinging fast to each other. The wet sand drags at his feet, but Harry’s steps feel as light as air, like he’s floating, almost, his heart fluttering against his ribs. They pass the loungers, the magazine upended between them. On the steps of the villa, Niall hesitates. He looks at Harry, a question in his eyes.

Harry presses forward though the open door, drawing Niall forward over the threshold, their hands still clasped. Inside, in the narrow entry hallway, he turns and draws Niall towards him. “I want,” he breathes against Niall’s mouth, and he doesn’t know how to finish it, when what he wants is everything—when he’s made of wanting, brimming with it, spilling over. He doesn’t know how to finish it when Niall’s kissing him, finally, up against the sunwarmed wall, when Niall’s groaning, “Yes,” low in his throat, pressing closer. There’s no limit to the things Harry wants, but he starts like this: fingers slipping under the band of Niall’s shorts, slipping lower, making Niall groan again when Harry’s fingers curl around him. 

“God,” Niall gasps. “Harry, are you—you’re sure?” When Harry nods, Niall sags against him, closing his eyes for a second. He opens them again. “Is—the bedroom, is that okay?” he breathes out. “I need to see you, to look at you.” 

In the bedroom Niall helps him peel off his wet suit, slinging it over the side of the hamper. When they’re naked, their bodies damp still, slippery wet, Niall pulls him close again, kissing him softly. He guides Harry back, till the bed hits the back of his knees, crawling onto the bed next to him. 

They haven't got lube, only hand lotion from the bathroom that smells of citrus fruit. Niall opens him up on his fingers, slow and careful, his eyes never leaving Harry's face, and normally Harry's all for uninterrupted eye contact during sex but for some reason now he can hardly breathe. It's the intensity of Niall's gaze on him, the feeling of Niall’s fingers inside him, the knowledge that he’s making Harry ready for his cock. He can’t stop touching himself, lightly, teasingly—not his dick, not yet, but his chest, his stomach, his trembling thighs, hands moving restlessly over his body before curling finally in the sheets, waiting. 

“You’re so,” Niall says, looking down at him. His voice cracks. “God, Harry. You’re so lovely.” 

They fuck with Harry rolled over onto his side, Niall spooned up behind him. When Niall begins to slide inside, a hand on his hip, Harry makes a soft sound. “Oh,” he breathes, as he’s slowly, slowly filled, Niall sinking into him, his chest pressed against Harry’s back, his breath hot against the nape of his neck. Niall’s hand strokes over his hip, over the softness of his belly, before circling finally around his cock, sliding his fist down the length of it, the smell of citrus heavy in the air. 

“So lovely,” he says again. “So lovely for me.” 

Harry’s eyes drift shut. His whole body’s humming gently with pleasure, opening to the praise like a flower turning its face towards the sun. Niall lets go of Harry’s cock. His hand slides down further, drawing Harry’s knee up, spreading him open wider, each roll of his hips driving him impossibly deeper.

“Want you to touch yourself,” he says, his voice low. “Can you do that?” Harry obeys instinctively, fingers curling around his dick. He’s wet, leaking over his fingers, and he feels so full, Niall moving inside him. He feels drunk, almost, time gone honeyed and slow. All he wants is to be open for Niall. All he wants is to be so open and easy for him, so that Niall can slip right into him, sink deeper, fill him up.

“I want,” he says dazedly, the words slipping from his mouth. “I want you inside me.”

“Already am, love,” Niall murmurs, kissing the back of his neck. “Can you feel me?”

“Oh,” Harry gasps, his eyes opening, widening, “oh—I feel you,” and then the pleasure crests within him, breaking over him like a wave, and he’s coming, he’s coming undone, spilling hot into his hand.

*

It's late when they finally get up again, Harry's stomach growling so loudly that neither of them can ignore it anymore. They’d gone to the farmers’ market in the village that morning, on Harry’s suggestion, so they’ve got enough supplies to make dinner in the villa’s small kitchen. 

Niall gets dressed, pulling on a worn pair of track shorts and a soft white t-shirt. Harry would rather they stay naked, ideally forever, but he pulls on a pair of Niall’s briefs, if only because otherwise Niall will fret about proper kitchen hygiene instead of enjoying the romantic dinner Harry’s planning to prepare him. He’s pretty sure he’d spotted candles under the sink earlier. 

He sets Niall to manning the range, making rice and heating the oil while Harry slices vegetables at the counter. Niall’s quiet, mostly, but it’s an easy, contented quiet, and Harry fills it happily, chattering about anything and everything that crosses his mind—about his mum and Gemma, Jeff, LA, about how he’s made the SoulCycle recordboards at his studio two weeks running and thinks he’s got a real shot at winning next time. It reminds him of the early days, before they were even properly together, when he used to crawl into Niall’s bunk on the bus, folding himself up tight in that too-small space. 

Niall always let him. He’d let Harry talk for hours at a stretch if he wanted—and oh, Harry _wanted_. He wanted so much: to be worthy of Niall’s attention, to be the funniest, the most charming. To make Niall laugh or roll his eyes or tickle Harry’s ribs till Harry was yelping and kicking, snapping his teeth playfully at Niall’s fingers. Back then it had felt, sometimes, like all Harry did was want, with a fierceness that startled him. He’d lived for those moments when Niall, warm and drowsy with sleep, would stroke Harry’s hip absently, or rub his back, the instinct to soothe so natural he hardly seemed to notice he was doing it. 

Even then Niall had made him feel safe, held and heard. He’d been the steadiest thing in Harry’s life, the ground on which Harry had built, slowly, fumblingly, a sense of himself that had nothing at all to do with the fame or the money or the things people said about him. When Niall pulled away, without explanation, without even properly _leaving_ , it had felt like losing more than just a best friend. It had felt like waking up one morning to find that he was suddenly incapable of speaking a language he’d been fluent in for years, all of it gone: all those private stores of words and images, all those ways of understanding and being understood. 

He makes an irritated gesture now, shrugging the memory away like a horse shaking off a persistent, stinging fly. In his distraction he applies too much pressure to the onion he’s dicing. The knife slices cleanly down, right into the meat of his thumb. 

“Fuck,” Harry swears, dropping the knife. He inspects the wound. It’s small but deep, the kind of cut that’ll be maddeningly slow to heal, sore every time he handles anything. It’s already bleeding. 

“What’s the matter?” Niall says, coming up behind him. 

“Cut myself,” Harry says. He cups a hand under his thumb to keep the blood from dripping onto the vegetables. “Wasn’t paying attention. D’you have a bandage or something?” 

There’s a beat. “Cupboard, maybe,” Niall says, his voice slightly strained. It’s not till Harry turns around, cradling his hand to his chest, that he understands why. 

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, his eyes widening. 

“It’s fine,” Niall says, swallowing hard. “I’m fine.” But when Harry shifts his weight slightly, meaning to move towards him, he takes a step back, then another, putting distance between them. His face has gone pale beneath the slight pink of his sunburn.

“Niall—”

“It’s fine,” Niall says again. He tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace, his mouth twisted. “Just startled me, that’s all.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Harry says desperately. “It was just an accident.”

“I know,” Niall says. “I know. I believe you.” He covers his face with his hand for a moment. “Sorry, yeah. Just, um. I’ll finish up here, yeah? And you can—you can go patch yourself up. Check the hall cupboard, I think I saw a first-aid kit in there.” 

 

Dinner’s a nightmare. They sit down at the table together, but it’s obvious that Niall’s still tense and distracted, intent on looking anywhere but the neat white bandage on Harry’s thumb. Harry’s usual stream of mindless chatter has seemingly dried up, along with his appetite. He’s so upset with himself for ruining the evening he can’t even try to smooth things over, can only push the food around on his plate, eyes swimming with tears. 

Niall only manages a few bites before he puts his fork down, pushing his plate away.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve got to—I’ll come back, I promise. In the morning.” 

Harry looks up, startled. “What?” 

“I’m not angry. Or upset. It’s just—I think it’ll be best. If I go.” 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry says. “I told you. I know you won’t hurt me.” 

“It’s not that,” Niall says, awkwardly. He stands up. “I need—I hadn’t, for a while. Before you got here. So I’ll just, I’ll go out, and then, um. I’ll come back, later. When I’ve—yeah.” 

_Oh._

Harry’s got no right to feel hurt. He’d forfeited that right a long time ago. 

“Right,” he says, looking down at his plate. “Okay.”

Niall hesitates. “You’ll be all right on your own for a bit, won’t you?” he says. “There’s—um, there’s the telly, you can watch something, if you want. Or there’s books, in the bedroom.”

“Yeah.” Harry feels numb, but he tries to force himself to sound normal. He can’t meet Niall’s eyes. “Was probably going to turn in early anyway.” 

“Okay,” Niall says, relief evident in his voice. “Yeah, of course. I’ll just—” 

“Or you could stay,” he blurts out. He feels Niall go still, his hand still resting on the back of the chair. He still can’t look at him. “If you wanted. It’s not a trick, I swear. You can take just as much as you need. Just a little if you want, and then it’ll be done, I promise. Like we used to on tour.” 

There’s a pause. Finally Niall says, heavily, “I don’t—Harry, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Harry nods, once, to show he’s heard. Then he pushes his chair back and stands up. He moves past Niall without touching him, without looking at him, and crosses the room to the sofa. He sits down with his back to Niall, his shoulders hunched, cradling his bandaged hand in his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” Niall says behind him. 

Harry looks at his own reflection in the glossy surface of the flatscreen TV. The room is too dark to make out his features in any kind of detail. Like this he’s only an outline, indistinctly drawn. Only a shape, a faceless form.

“I know,” he says. “I know.” 

*

After Niall leaves, he lies down on the sofa, pressing his face into the cushions. 

He wants to crawl back into bed, to pull the covers over his head, but he can’t, not when the sheets still smell like the two of them, sex and citrus. Not when he knows they’ll never share that bed again. He’ll sleep here, tonight, and in the morning he’ll call a cab. He’ll go back to LA, back to his life. 

_I guess you have to decide. If it’s worth it to you, going after him. Even if you might not get the answer you want._

He knows Zayn’s voice had been gentle, not mocking. The contempt he hears in those words now, as he repeats them to himself lying curled up on the sofa, is all his own. 

They could still try. He could put on a happy face tomorrow, act like nothing had happened. They could make a go of it, be friends again, lovers even. Everything but _that_. Everything but forever. 

He sees his life unspooling before him, every breath drawing him onward, down a path Niall will never be able to follow. He sees the wedge it will drive between them, inevitably: the distance imperceptible at first, maybe, but ever-widening, till at last they can no longer reach each other across the great divide. He sees the way his own doubts will brew in his mind like storm clouds, dark and ominous, hanging heavy over their happiness. 

_I can’t,_ he thinks, and the admission wrenches him open. He cries out softly, an inarticulate expression of pain, the tears falling thick and fast now. _I’m not strong enough. I’m not selfless enough._

The door slams open. 

Harry sits bolt upright. He blinks, dazed with grief, with surprise. 

“Niall?” he says.

“I couldn’t do it.” Niall crosses the room in four long strides. He falls to his knees in front of the sofa, in front of Harry, his distress written plainly on his face. “I don’t want it to be someone else, Harry. I want it to be you.”

For a moment Harry can’t speak. Niall’s face is wet, and in his stupor it takes him a moment to realize Niall’s been crying, too.

He understands, now, what to do. He takes Niall's face gently into his hands and looks at him: his blue eyes, his sunburned cheeks, the smattering of freckles across his nose. “I love you,” he says. “I trust you.” 

"I don't know if you should.” Niall’s voice is choked, but he doesn’t pull away.

"I don't think that's how it works," Harry says, as gently as he knows how. "I don't think you get to decide how much somebody loves you. How much they trust you. I think - I think it's something they give to you, and you have to decide what to do with it." 

Niall closes his eyes. He turns his face, pressing his cheek against Harry's palm. "I'm so scared," he says quietly. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you. I'm afraid it won't be enough."

“What won’t be?”

"This.” Niall gives a shaky laugh. "Me. All of it. I think—what if we do this, and you wake up one day and you hate me for it, because I knew what it was like and I didn’t stop you wanting it. Because I was selfish like him. Because I wanted, and I took, and I didn’t think about you.” 

Harry pulls him closer. He nuzzles his face against Niall’s, nose to nose. 

“You’re not him,” he says. “You never were. It’s us, Niall. It’s not like it was, with you and him. It’s not taking.” 

Niall closes his eyes. He breathes raggedly, his lips parted, leaning heavily against Harry like he’s drawn to the warmth of him. 

"It doesn't have to be right now," Harry says softly. "It doesn't have to be soon, even. I'll wait till you’re ready, if that’s what you want. Till you can trust me when I say I want this, with you. But I can’t keep asking you for it, Niall. It can’t always be me, asking. Begging. It won’t work that way. You have to trust me, too.” 

“I do,” Niall says. “Or I—I want to. I’m trying.” 

Harry presses his fingertips to Niall’s jaw, tilting his chin up. He brushes his mouth against Niall’s, once, before drawing back. Niall’s watching him, looking up at him from between Harry’s legs, fear and reverence mixed in his expression. It reminds Harry of that night in Maura’s kitchen, when Niall had knelt between his legs like this and pressed his face against Harry’s thigh, begging to be allowed to touch him, to make him feel good.

He doesn’t want it like that, not tonight. He doesn’t want it to feel like Niall’s got anything to be ashamed of, anything he needs Harry’s forgiveness for. He wants it to feel the way it used to. A revelation, every time: that such intimacy was possible, that two people could feel so much together. 

He brushes his thumb over Niall’s lower lip, looking at him. Then he settles back against the cushions, letting his legs spread wider. He moves his hand down, stroking over the soft, exposed skin of his inner thigh. 

“Here,” he says. “I want it here.” 

Niall looks at him. Then he bends his head and presses his mouth against the place where Harry’s fingers are, gently sucking a mark onto Harry’s skin. 

Harry breathes out, his legs splaying wider. 

“You can tell me to stop,” Niall murmurs. His breath is hot, ticklish, and Harry shudders a little at the sensation, his body already trembling with anticipation. “If it’s too much. Tell me and I’ll stop.”

Harry nods. 

Niall’s fangs pierce his skin easily, a bright, stinging pain. Harry groans, unable to stifle it. He tips his head back against the sofa, toes curling with the effort of holding himself still. There it is: that familiar, gentle tugging, like Niall’s coaxing it from him—blood, but pleasure, too, a heat uncoiling low in his belly, drawn forth from the deepest parts of him. 

He shifts restlessly, unable to help it. Niall slides a hand up Harry’s other thigh, fingers splaying wide over naked skin, holding him open and still. The gentle pressure intensifies, like Niall’s been drinking lightly, letting him get used to the sensation, before he begins in earnest. 

Harry groans again, fingers curling against the sofa cushions, his body responding instinctually. It’s not just the sting of Niall’s fangs, now, or the steady suction of his mouth. It’s that plus the image of Niall’s head between his spread legs, close to, but not quite touching, the bulge in his briefs. It’s like a blowjob except that his dick’s being completely ignored, which is somehow impossibly _better_ than a blowjob. He whimpers in the back of his throat, wanting attention, wanting to be denied it. 

Niall strokes at the inside of his thigh with his thumb, soothing him. Then he slides his hand underneath Harry’s arse, cupping one cheek in his palm and squeezing hard. 

“Niall,” Harry moans, shifting again. He’s slid halfway down the back of the couch now with his legs spread as wide as they’ll go, his belly soft, his dick fully hard, straining against the confines of his briefs. The angle’s awkward, but when Niall rubs two fingers down the crease of his arse, rubbing at his hole through the fabric, Harry starts to pant a little, rocking down eagerly into the touch.

Just then Niall gently disengages his fangs from Harry’s thigh, lifting his head. “Oh,” Harry says, before he can help it, and tries not to feel horribly disappointed.

Niall must see it on his face, because he grins toothily, flashing a mouthful of remarkably white—and perfectly straight, thanks to the miracles of modern orthodontia—fangs. 

“Not done,” he says, reaching up to tug at the waistband of Harry’s briefs. “Yeah?” 

Harry almost knees him in the face in his eagerness to help, which is apparently affirmation enough. When his cock springs free, slapping wetly against his belly, it’s Niall who groans, pressing his forehead against Harry’s leg. 

“Christ, Harry,” he says. “Christ, you’re so—”

“More,” Harry whines, bucking his hips, and Niall laughs, breathless, and says, “All right, all right. Wait a second, though, yeah?”

He scrambles to his feet, disappearing into the kitchen. A moment later he comes back, a jar of coconut oil in hand. 

“Should’ve thought of it earlier,” he says, settling back between Harry’s knees. “S’much better than lotion.” 

“Mm, but then my arse won’t smell of oranges,” Harry points out. 

“Reckon I’ll still love you,” Niall says, unscrewing the top of the coconut oil. “And your arse, too. Here, budge up a bit. And quit waving that thing around, you’ll put someone’s eye out.”

Harry wriggles his hips invitingly, his dick bouncing a little. “Could put it in your mouth instead.”

“Bet you wouldn’t enjoy that half as much.”

“As what?” 

“As this,” Niall says, and bites Harry’s inner thigh again, in the exact same spot, and _oh,_ that’s good, that’s lovely, the way the soreness intensifies the pain, heightens every sensation. Harry fists a hand in Niall’s hair, pulling a little, and Niall makes a pleased humming sound, biting down harder. This time when he runs his fingers up the cleft of Harry’s arse, his fingers are slick, and the first one slips in easily, his other fingers folded against his palm.

“More,” Harry demands a moment later, and Niall gives it to him, another finger pressing in alongside the first. He’s loose and relaxed still from earlier, and though the angle’s still shit Niall makes the best of it, twisting his fingers so Harry can feel the stretch of it, rocking them gently inside him. He’s so hard it pains him a little, his dick drooling precome onto the soft pudge of his belly, but he just tightens his grip on Niall’s hair, ignoring it. He doesn’t want to touch himself, not yet. Not till Niall’s inside him. 

He’s starting to drift a little, his mind going a bit fuzzy at the edges, when Niall pulls off his thigh. He starts lapping gently at the bite mark on Harry’s thigh, his tongue soft and wet as he licks up the last drops of blood. Then he gently pulls his fingers out, wiping them on his shorts. 

Harry looks down at him fondly. “Hi,” he says, somewhat hazily. 

“Everything all right?” Niall asks, worry creasing his forehead. 

“Happy,” Harry says. “S’the what’s it, the endolphins.” 

“Endorphins, I think,” Niall says, smiling. He crawls up onto the sofa next to him, pulling Harry half into his lap, and kisses him so thoroughly Harry can taste himself, a faint, coppery tang. Harry melts into it, his body going lax and easy against Niall’s. 

After a long moment, Niall breaks the kiss. He doesn’t pull away, though, just leans his forehead against Harry’s, his eyes closed. He strokes his thumb gently over Harry’s thigh.

“When we go back,” he says. “I think we should we should talk to somebody. Maybe your detective friend knows somebody, if there are really loads of us in London.”

“You mean—like a couples counselor?” Harry says, interested. “For vampires?”

“I dunno,” Niall says, drawing back a little. “Or even just, like—somebody who’s done it before, with someone they cared about. If we’re going to do it I want to do it properly. I don’t want to fuck it up.” 

Harry leans in. He kisses him, his hand sliding up to cup Niall’s face.

“Okay,” he says. “So not tonight, then.” He kisses him again. “Can we do other stuff, though?”

Niall quirks an eyebrow at him. “You got something in mind, Styles?”

“Got a few ideas,” Harry says, sliding his hands up under the hem of Niall’s t-shirt. 

It takes some maneuvering, but once he’s got Niall naked Harry wastes no time in straddling his thighs. He reaches down between his legs and wraps his fingers round Niall’s cock, slicking him up. 

“Fuck,” Niall groans, his eyes half-closing when Harry starts sinking slowly down. “How’re you so—god, you feel so good.” 

Harry doesn’t bother with an answer, too focused on the sensation of being filled slowly up with cock. He takes his time with it, lets himself feel every inch of it as he takes Niall inside him. He slides his palms up over Niall’s naked chest, over his shoulders.

“Christ,” Niall says, dazed, once Harry’s seated fully in his lap, rocking gently as he experiments a bit with the angle. Niall always gets a bit slow and stupid after he’s fed—he’ll fall asleep right after, given the chance—but that’s why Harry’s on top. This isn’t his first rodeo.

It takes them a few minutes to ease into a nice rhythm, Harry grinding down, Niall snapping his hips up to meet him. They kiss, lazily at first, then with growing urgency, until finally Harry can’t manage anything more coordinated than panting against Niall’s shoulder, whimpering a little as Niall fucks up into him, holding his hips firmly in place. 

He feels it when Niall comes, his rhythm going ragged, until finally he pushes in deep and stills, eyes squeezed shut, his nails digging in hard as he pulses inside him. 

Harry whines in the back of his throat. He’s nearly there, but Niall’s gone boneless beneath him and his thighs are already trembling with the effort of holding himself up. He braces himself on the back of the sofa and redoubles his efforts, fucking himself as best he can, cock trapped awkwardly between their bodies. He feels half frantic, so close so _close,_ and Niall’s just going to leave him, he’s going to fall asleep and leave him here like this, alone, bereft— 

“Shh, pet, I’ve got you,” Niall mumbles. He wraps arms around Harry and gathers him close. “Don’t cry.”

Harry sobs against his shoulder, his shoulders hunched, his whole body curled inwards. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying. It feels like a dam’s burst open inside him, and everything’s spilling out, all the pent-up sadness and fear and guilt he’s locked away inside himself the past few months. All the worry that he’d come here for nothing, chasing a dream he couldn’t ever really have. But he’s here, and he has it now, and this time it’s for real. 

Relief. That’s what he feels—or what he wants to feel, what he’s so close to feeling.

“Want to come,” he sobs, because it’s too hard to explain all that. 

Niall rubs his lower back for a minute, slow, soothing circles. Then, carefully, he shifts their positions, lowering Harry back onto the cushions. He braces himself over him and begins to rock slowly into him.

“Look at me,” he says. “Harry, look at me. Don’t look away.” 

Harry must look a mess. His hair’s all sweaty, sticking up every which way, and he knows his face is flushed pink still, tracked with tears. But he holds Niall’s gaze anyway, as steadily as he can manage. He holds it, and he lets himself be held by it. He lets himself be seen. It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced, and the most exhilarating, and Harry never wants it to end. 

“I love you,” Niall says. “I trust you.” 

*

“Harry!”

He turns, his sandals dangling from his fingertips. Dawn is just breaking, and the sky above him is awash in rich reds and oranges, the sun melting like a pat of yellow butter on the rim of the horizon. The day is cool and quiet, only a handful of scattered beachgoers picking their way through the sand.

He spots Niall, standing a long ways down the beach in front of the villa. He’s got a hand held up to his face, shielding his eyes from the glare. He calls something else, but Harry can’t make it out over the sound of the surf. 

He waves at him, to let him know he’s heard him. Then he starts to trudge back down the beach, the wet sand sucking him down with every step. The closer he gets, the faster he walks—faster and faster, until suddenly he’s running, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest, his feet so light they hardly seem to touch the ground. 

"Hey," Niall says as he draws closer, but Harry doesn't even try to slow down, just runs full pelt into Niall's arms. He collides with him hard enough to knock them off balance, sending them both toppling to the ground. They fall in a tangle of limbs, Harry caught up in Niall, Niall in Harry, elbows and knees everywhere. 

“Morning, you nutter,” Niall says, laughing. When Harry kisses him, sweet and lingering, he can feel the curve of his smile against his mouth, the slight hitch of Niall's chest under his palm, Niall's fingers curling against his upper arm. 

“Car’ll be here in ten,” Niall says, looking up at him. “You gonna be ready?”

“Have to pack, still,” Harry mumbles against his mouth. He can’t summon up a sense of urgency, though, not when he’s got Niall under him, soft and relaxed. 

“Already done it. Half your things were in my case anyway.” Niall slides a hand up Harry's side, tickling him a little. Harry yelps in feigned outrage, taking the opportunity to squirm closer instead of away. 

“You love it,” he says. “My stuff in your case. Admit it.”

"Do not.”

“You love it,” Harry repeats. “You love me.”

He doesn't know if he'll ever get tired of saying it out loud. He knows he won't ever get tired of the way it makes Niall's expression go soft, his fingers stilling on Harry's ribs, slotting easily into the dips there.

“Yeah,” Niall says. “Maybe I do.”

Harry kisses him again. Snogs him thoroughly and deep, lots of tongue, a knee nudging between Niall’s thighs.

Niall pulls back too soon. “Car, Haz.”

Harry groans, resting his head on Niall’s chest for a moment. Then, reluctantly, he rolls off onto onto his back in the sand. His hand slips down to find Niall’s, their fingers laced together. 

“Don’t wanna go,” he says. “Let’s just stay here forever.”

“Costs an arm and a leg, this place does,” Niall says. “And you’ve got a whole house in LA.”

“Not forever, then,” Harry says. “Just another week. Another month. Or we could go somewhere else, maybe. Bet we could afford an island.”

“Yeah?” Niall says. “What would we do with an island?”

“Just live,” Harry says. “You could learn to fish or something, I dunno, and I could have a garden, and we could have all our friends visit.” 

“Sounds nice,” Niall says. 

“Then let’s do it,” Harry says. “Let’s not go home.” 

Niall props himself up on one elbow. “What’s all this, then? What’s wrong with LA?”

Harry stares up at the gradually lightening sky. He doesn’t know how to put it into words, the thing he’s feeling. For the last two days they’ve been talking about LA, about going home and seeing their friends, making plans for the future, and he’s felt almost delirious with happiness, unable to stop grinning even when Niall teases him about it. Now that it’s here, though, he can’t help but feel faint stirrings of dread. 

LA’s real, is the thing. This little bubble they’ve created for themselves here in the villa—it’s felt real, living it, but some small part of him is still afraid that when they go back it’ll fall apart, slipping through his fingers like sand. 

“We could travel,” he says. “We haven’t even spent any time here, really.”

Niall studies him. “What about your meeting?”

“I don’t care,” Harry says, although he does, a little. He’s not sure he’s ready for it to all be over—the music, and the performing, all the things he loves that aren’t Niall. “We could travel the world, see it all properly this time. Could have a gap year. A gap century, if we wanted.”

“Sounds sick,” Niall says. “But it’ll still be there, you know, the world. And you’ve got your friends, Harry, and your family. They won’t always be there.”

It’s something they’ve talked about, the past two days. What it means to watch the people around you grow older, knowing you won’t ever follow. Niall’s been honest with him, more open than Harry can ever remember him being—not trying to frighten him out of it, just telling Harry what it’s like, answering his questions. Harry knows it’ll be hard, sometimes. He knows, too, that there are some parts of it Niall can’t prepare him for, no matter how patiently he explains it. There are some things he’ll have to live for himself, learning as he goes, adjusting to fit. 

He’s okay with that, he thinks. Nervous, but okay. If he's got Niall with him. 

“I’ll still be there, too,” Niall says softly, like he's read Harry's mind. “The world’ll be there, and I will, too.” 

Harry closes his eyes. Then he opens them again, blinking the light from his lashes. It’s daybreak, and the sky is dazzling in its beauty, dotted here and there with soft wisps of cloud, the colors so much richer, so much more stunning, than anything he could’ve dreamed existed.

“All right,” he says. “Just give me one more minute.”

“And then what,” Niall says. “What comes after that?”

Harry looks at him. He reaches out and touches Niall’s face, gently, and then his chest, pressing his fingertips to the place where, in anyone else, a heart would beat. 

“The rest of our lives,” he says. “Forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.saysthemagpie.tumblr.com). EDIT: on tumblr hiatus, pls visit me on [dreamwidth](http://saysthemagpie.dreamwidth.org).


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